


Impressions

by Voidspeaker (Cloudspun)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Also using semi-traditional Khajiiti dialect, Alternate POV (We're looking through Ralof's eyes), F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudspun/pseuds/Voidspeaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all know the story of the Dovakhiin. Hero shows up, slays dragon, consumes dragon's soul. Something some people may not know as much about: the impressions the Dovakhiin leaves on others. Specifically, on a blond Nord. This incarnation of the Dragonborn is an opinionated young Khajiit named Mercy, and boy is her opinion of her own effects on the world low.<br/>Let's see how long that lasts, shall we? Not everyone shares her opinion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> This went from a piece detailing how each individual saw the main character (in this case, my Elsweyrian-born Khajiit named Mercy) to a fluffy Dovakiin/Ralof story in about a chapter and a half. I'm not sure where it ends (Skyrim is, after all, an open-ended game), but the muse will hopefully let me know a chapter beforehand.

Ralof eyed the Khajiit sitting across from him on the cart. The physique marked her as female, but he had little experience at all with the felid peoples; Nords normally frowned on any outsider, particularly those who bore fur or scales.

The Khajiit's hands weren't just bound, either. They were covered in a way that looked like she were wearing thickly-padded gloves. It made sense, since all the cat-people had dangerously sharp claws, but now, it seemed a bit over-the-top to him.

She stirred, ears and whiskers twitching as she came back to consciousness, and Ralof sighed. At least it would be over faster, no needing to have a healer revive her so the headsman could put her down permanently… but he found himself wondering. What had a Khajiit been doing so far north of her homeland?

He would have to ask her in Sovngarde, it seemed. The thief started squealing, and the Khajiit growled quietly at the noise. Ulfric looked completely perturbed at the entire debacle, and they were approaching Helgen.

 

* * *

Everything happened so quickly, he lost track of it all until they were in the keep. The dragon had destroyed so much of the town, but the people were still running. He'd been afraid that the Khajiit, Mercy (odd name for a cat) would go with the Imperial guard who'd led the way to the tower, but she'd hissed at the man. When Ralof had called, she'd followed gladly.

She'd proven to be a quick learner, transforming from proficient to deadly with the axe he'd had her equip by the time they'd escaped the caverns. He'd talked to her a lot as they travelled from Helgen to Riverwood, watching as she zigzagged across the road gathering various plants. Honestly, it was as though she were a child in an unfamiliar land…

"Mercy, have you never been to Skyrim before?"

Her ears rotated back toward him as she looked around; she nodded when she turned to face him.

"This one never really left her home in Elseweyr. Her sire was not doing well for a long time, so she stayed to look after him. After he got better, he insisted that Mercy travel and learn the world and its ways." She murmured, blue-green eyes watching him warily.

"Forgive my ignorance… I didn't know Khajiit were so devoted to their families." Ralof admitted, trying to smile and convince her to talk to him. He did have the stigmas that so many of his people held, but he was curious, and if she took him up on the suggestion to join the Stormcloaks, he wanted to be able to give her a solid recommendation.

"Few people know much, or even care, about the structures of Khajiit society, yes? No need to feel bad about it." She turned away, making it so he barely caught her next words: "So many hate the Khajiit, you probably want an Orc or another Nord, not filthy Mercy."

"Hey, now, I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it; the Stormcloaks could use your skill. And besides, I'm pretty sure you're cleaner than those Imperials we fought." He chided gently. That drew a laugh from her, a deep chuffing sound that set him slightly on edge.

"With all due respect, this one thinks you are crazy. Khajiit are thieves, addicts, not to be trusted. Every race of Man and Mer says so, so Mercy thinks they must either all be mad or they must all be right. Mercy just hasn't been around other Khajiit enough to learn, yes?" She shook her head, walking on down the road. Ralof stopped, stunned at her words; She hadn't had a condescending tone, or even a hateful sneer as she spoke. It was like she either didn't care what people thought of her, or she had heard the insults enough that she was beginning to believe them. He set his jaw, and quickened his pace to walk side by side with her.

"Well, maybe Men and Mer haven't met Khajiit who were willing to prove them wrong. Maybe Men and Mer haven't met Khajiit who helped them for no other reason than because they could."   
Her hand on his chest stopped him.

"Maybe Khajiit are being shaped by what society has told us we are, yes? Maybe we've been beaten and broken so many times that we no longer care, we merely want society to stop kicking us. Ralof of Riverwood, this one has seen your people kill hers for standing the wrong way or speaking at the wrong time. This one has seem Nords, Imperials, Bretons, Redguard, and every flavor of Mer abuse her people merely because we are seen as animals. Mercy was arrested for buying a fish and a doll and giving them to a Cathay cub, a young one like her, merely because she came inside the gate to purchase them.  That is what my father wanted me to learn when he sent me from our secluded home in Elseweyr, yes? Don't act like this one can change how her people are seen and treated. I can't. I doubt even the gods can."

He hadn't realized how intimidating Khajiit fangs and claws could be. He stood still as Mercy stormed on down the path.

"You start to drop the 'this one' and such when you're angry, then?" He asked, thinking to perhaps divert to a different subject. Mercy hissed and rumbled unhappily, much like one of the housecats he'd seen in some of the southern villages.

"It is a bad habit. I- Mercy's father always fussed, saying it was not proper for her to talk as Imperials do. Not around anyone other than close family. He used to tell stories of a land where all peoples, humans, elves, Khajiit, Argonians, even dwarves and fey, stood on an even level, able to talk and act as they wished and expecting the same consequences no matter what they were, but he always ended with 'That's not how it is here, Mercy. Mind your tongue and mind your words.'"

"Such a place... sounds nice." Ralof conceded. Mercy sighed, stopping and waiting for him to keep walking.

She stopped talking to him after that, and he let the silence go. He'd been trying to prove her wrong about how his people judged hers, but he'd only proven her right. He did hope, though, that she would be proven wrong about being able to change the view of people as a whole.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends are reunited, then divided once again. Funny how people can want to reject a higher social standing if they've grown used to being treated as scum.

It was a quiet night in Riverwood; Frodnar and Stump were making their own rounds through the sleepy little village, and Ralof had joined them. He would be leaving early the next morning, and aimed to report to Jarl Ulfric in Windhelm before the week was out. Frodnar was peppering him with questions about the handful of battles that he'd taken part in. Stump's friendly yipping distracted both of them from the tale of Ivarstead.

"Who goes?!" Ralof called, drawing his axe. He shooed Frodnar back away from the gate as the hooded stranger approached.

"A Friend." The stranger replied, a typical Khajiit-accent rolling her response. She stooped to pet Stump, tail curling around her legs.

"Khajiit are normally unwelcome here, stranger, unless you only intend to pass through. I wish the Jarl wasn't so close-minded." Ralof relaxed, still wary of the stranger, but seeing no obvious threat.

"He wouldn't mind one of his thanes visiting a friend in their home-village, yes?"

She pulled her hood back, letting moonlight strike her features. Ralof blinked, then grinned as he holstered his axe.

"Mercy? Forgive me, I didn't recognize you!" He laughed. Blue-Green eyes glittered mirthfully at him, and he thought he could see a tight-lipped grin on her face.

* * *

"So, tell me, what really brings you here? There's hardly anything to do in Riverwood; were it not for Frodnar I'd go mad from boredom." Ralof asked, once he and the Khajiit were seated by the inn-hearth. Mercy shrugged.

"Mercy heard tell of dragon fire and burning pines. She wanted to come and ensure the village wasn't in danger, though she hopes she hasn't brought danger with her. Dragons are returning, with more flocking to the skies every day." Mercy sighed, taking another drink from her stein.

"I haven't seen a dragon since Helgen." Ralof commented, masking alarm. The Jarl's men had started patrolling, and he had hoped it was enough to make one of the massive winged beasts think twice. He'd heard the Greybeards' shout several weeks prior, but knew nothing of what had transpired.

"Mercy has seen a few too many, herself… She'll probably go hunting in the morning." Mercy rumbled. Ralof wondered what she'd seen, she looked a bit grayer than she had in Helgen.

"You've reinforced the 'this one' bits of your talk, I see." He remarked, trying to pull her back from her thoughts.

"This one was slipping too much. Towards one who is in power, such as a Jarl, it is too informal. To one who is a friend, it is impolite. To an enemy…" She paused, a wicked smile crossing her features. "Well, enemies don't live long enough to hear such niceties from-"

She froze, her ears turning straight up, then twitching back and around.

"Mercy?" Ralof asked, startled.

"Sst!" She hissed in reply, dropping her stein on the table and bolting out the door.

Then he heard the roar.

Ralof grabbed his axe from its resting place next to his chair, and followed.

He froze in the doorway.

A massive, golden-eyed dragon was staring at Frodnar, keeping the boy frozen in its gaze. The beast started to rear back; Ralof heard the beginnings of the Fire-shout hissing in the air.

An arrow buzzed past him into the eye of the beast. The dragon let loose an ear-piercing shriek, a spray of ice flying up into the sky as it flailed. It turned its good eye to stare past him; he heard scrabbling, saw a shadow bolt out into the street and down the cobblestone path. The dragon took to the air, buffeting the alarmed town with a gale from its wings.

The fear it had stricken into Ralof wore off after a moment; he darted out and grabbed Frodnar, carrying the boy to the safety of his home. He turned Frodnar over to his mother, letting Gerdur soothe her frightened son.

Then Ralof realized: Mercy had disappeared. He turned, saw the dark speck of the cat fleeing down the path and through the brush, then looked up and saw the dragon following in a beeline.

* * *

The last he saw of the beast was its body becoming ash and bones, a thin golden vapor flowing from it to wrap around Mercy; the Khajiit looked almost angelic, in a way. Her fur took a golden hue, her figure glowed, and her eyes-   
Ralof startled. Mercy's eyes had taken a reptilian shape and a dangerous amber hue; it was as if she herself was a dragon, but in a mortal shape.

He blinked, and it was gone. The dragon was nothing more than bones and a few loose scales, and Mercy looked like herself again. She approached the remains of the beast calmly, and gathered some of the bones and scales into the various packs she wore.

"What in Talos' name wat that?" The Nord asked, loud enough to make himself heard. Mercy startled, turning her gaze on him.

"Wh… what was what?" she responded, her voice cracking.

"That magic that turned a thousand-stones dragon into a pile of bones. You yourself looked draconic for a moment, to be honest. What is going on? What have I missed?"

"It… I… apparently this one is…" She sighed, ears flattening back against her skull.

"You're what?" Ralof pressed. Mercy bowed her head, seemingly ashamed.

"Dragonborn." It was nearly a whisper, but it rung like a brass bell. Things fell into place in an instant; the dragons returning, the call of the Graybeards sounding days after the attack on Helgen, it made sense.

"So, then… the legends are true." Ralof murmured.

"Please don't say that. Everyone who finds out says that, they always look at this one funny afterwards. Mercy has already told three of the guards in Whiterun to stop calling her that so people stop treating her like… like she is someone important." Mercy snipped, a tinge of desperation in her voice. She gave Ralof a pleading look.

He sighed. "Mercy… you are important whether you like it or not. According to the legends you're the only one standing between us and the End of Days. People are going to look up to you because of that, they don't realize you're… well… you're as new to the idea as they are."

Mercy's expression closed, becoming masklike in its lack of expression. Ralof put his hands up. "I didn't say I'd treat you any different. I still see the Khajiit I saw in Helgen, just with a bit more power at her fingertips." 

The words didn't work; Mercy turned away from him and took off at an easy run, quickly increasing the distance between herself and Riverwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning into a RalofxFem!Dragonborn fic on me. I meant for it to be a regular fic when I began... Really I did.  
> There goes that idea.  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The War Begins.  
> Seems not everyone is as willing to look past a person's pelt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind that we're following Ralof, here. Not Mercy.  
> We might follow Mercy later, but right now Muse!Mercy is being a royal pain.

True to his word, Ralof left his home for Windhelm the next morning; the night had been restless, the entire village was on edge after the dragon's attack. The Nord had assured his sister and nephew, before taking a horse and riding as quickly as he could to the High King's hold.

He thought as he rode, of tangled skeins of thread and the peculiarities of fate, of the words Mercy had said when he'd first met her and how her new position would likely juxtapose her words.

"'Don't act like I can change the minds of men. I can't. I doubt even the gods could.' you said. Well, Mercy, I think the gods intend to prove you wrong." He mumbled, spurring his horse back to a gallop from its leisurely trot. The wind was starting to bite, and he wanted to reach Windhelm by nightfall. Too many had died in the frozen nights of Eastmarch, most preferred to have their camps set by dark, or to be safe in their beds when the stars came out.

* * *

Ulfric Stormcloak was brooding on his throne as Ralof entered the hall. The Usurper-King clearly had other things on his mind, and Ralof waited silently for the passage of whatever thoughts the Jarl of Windhelm entertained.

"Ralof! I was worried you'd been caught by wolves or Imperials on your way here; it is incredibly late and the winter is unforgiving." Galmar boomed, a hint of humor in his eyes. Ralof nodded, wondering if Mercy would take his advice, as she had said she might.

"We had a young Khajiit here earlier today, said you'd pointed her to us. Maurie, I think her name was?" Ulfric rumbled. Ralof swallowed, and nodded.

"Mercy, my lord?"

"Yes, that was it. Mercy. Galmar sent her to the Serpent Stone; she should be back at some point in the next few days, if she comes back at all. Might I ask as to why you would send her here?" Blue eyes stared through Ralof's very soul, or so he felt.

"She was at Helgen, sire. She was the cat that helped me and several others escape." Ralof answered, breaking the staring contest. He heard an acknowledgement from the would-be High King, who then proceeded to ignore him.

"Come, then. I've places for you to be, no matter if you sent her to us or not." Galmar interjected, pulling Ralof into the map-room.

 

* * *

Ralof shivered in his new position, staring down into the ravine towards the entrance of the barrow. He was honestly getting sick of snow; memories of the relatively warm, green forests surrounding Riverwood taunted him, and he could practically feel the sun on his back-

An Imperial dropped, an arrow sticking out of his back. Another dropped seconds later. Ralof was up in an instant, and caught a glimpse of shadow before he could draw his battleaxe.

"By the Nine! Had I known Unblooded was an archer, I would've sent her elsewhere!" Galmar growled.

"You mean, that's Mercy? Gods, I'd known she was more skilled than when I saw her in Helgen, but I barely even glimpsed her in the brush." Ralof responded, surprised by the commander's frustration.

"Aye, but can she avoid hitting us when she shoots? We'll see." Galmar rumbled, charging down into the crevasse. Ralof followed with the others; he saw Mercy drop from her perch, sheathing her bow and loosening a gleaming sword and matching dagger in their scabbards as she merged in with the other soldiers. He swore he heard Galmar growl again.

In the commander's debrief to them, Ralof took a moment to glance at Mercy from the corner of his eye; she wore Stormcloak armor that had obviously had a bit of extra tailoring done (it allowed for her tail, and fell a bit longer at the shoulders and bottom hem), and still she wore no helm. One black-rimmed ear cocked toward him for a moment, then flicked back to Galmar as they filed into the barrow.

He and the other Stormcloaks crouched among the rocks, watching the Imperials as they paced in the entrance hall; Galmar told each of them to pick a target, and Ralof heard Mercy's bow creak quietly. He glanced at her again; she was still as stone, bowstring drawn back fully and an arrow trained on one of their enemies. A moment later, Galmar gave the signal and her arrow took flight.

* * *

More and more, Mercy appeared to be proving her worth. In one room, Galmar sent her ahead in search of another entrance, and they'd entered the chamber to find one imperial dead and the others jumping at shadows.

"Where did you learn all this, Mercy?" Ralof asked her, taking the chance provided by a narrow passage. She gave him a tight-lipped smile.

"This one must have a few secrets, Ralof. Suffice it to say, little Mercy made a few friends in placed high and low, since Helgen." She rumbled in reply, darting ahead to scout when Galmar stopped to inspect a Draugr. They caught up to her in the Hall of Stories, inspecting the walls with the curiosity she had displayed on the road from Helgen. Galmar growled at her again, far more loudly this time; she responded with an odd chirp, before walking down to inspect the puzzle-door. Moments later, the door was open.

"You're too good at this, cat. I'd wager you've done this before?" one of the female Stormcloaks sneered. Mercy hesitated before responding, laying her ears back as she spoke.

"This one has explored tombs before, yes. This one has had to; various people of good repute have requested items which were buried with their owners, and there was no way to get those items but to weave down through the various puzzles and traps within the tombs."

"Pah. So in other words, you're a thief. No surprise there." The Nordic woman scoffed. Mercy stiffened, and Ralof saw her tail twitch angrily, but she said nothing more. He started to defend her, but Galmar beat him to the punch.

"That's enough! We're raiding a tomb now, aren't we? Most of these poor bastards can't do any good with their spoils now, and sometimes the living benefit from artifacts more than the dead ever could. That's the last I want to hear of that!" the old bear roared; the Nords cowed under his glare, though Ralof reacted less than the others did. Mercy didn't react at all, her expression closed and her back stiff.

She didn't draw her bow again, instead hanging back and looking on as Ralof and the others searched. She nodded when Galmar handed her the Crown and ordered her back to Windhelm; she left without a word as they explored the rest.

Ralof noticed she kept to herself more and more after that; in small groups she said little or nothing, preferring to complete the task as quickly as possible. Even as they camped outside of Markarth, Ralof saw her isolating herself. When Galmar sent him with a team to scout ahead, he silently prayed to the gods that she would have luck with whatever the old man had planned.

* * *

 

That Mercy wouldn't tell him what had occurred in Markarth said volumes. She looked gray-green under her fur, and her normally immaculate aim was off half the time. He tried to ask, but she shook her head and said nothing.

"Seems blackmail doesn't sit with her." One of the other soldiers had commented, once he was back in camp. he'd gaped at her (her name was Greta, as he recalled) as she explained how Mercy had had to get the information out of the Jarl's Steward.

He hadn't been able to look at the Khajiit without biting his tongue for a week, which he knew had hurt her more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words can be weapons against both enemy and friend; even words spoken from a nearly-broken habit can hurt, though they might not be meant.  
> Fortunately, Time has a way of cooling heated tempers. Right?

During a lull in the war, Mercy vanished. Ralof hadn't even seen her leave; it had been as if one moment she'd been there, the next she was gone. He wasn't given time to be miffed, though; there was talk of Thalmor camped in the mountains north of Windhelm. He took a raiding party out, seeking the intruders.

When they returned three days later, empty-handed and half-frozen, Ulfric told them an emissary had come with threats to kill the Jarl's sister and nephew if he did not surrender. Ralof had never seen the man who would be king falter, but Ulfric had a look of fear in his eyes that said he'd never faced this sort of dilemma.

"Why not send a small group to rescue them?"

Mercy's voice broke the shock and tension in the hall; all eyes turned toward her as she calmly regarded the king.

"We do not know where they are being held. If the team were discovered they would all be killed instantly. I… I know what I have said in the past. I just…" Ulfric trailed off, placing his head in his hands.

"You never thought you would have to make the choice between your future and the future of your kingdom." Mercy finished the thought for him.

"You make bold assumptions, cat. Where were you when we could've used you, huh?! You might've been the one to keep the Jarl's family from being kidnapped, did you think about that when you left?!" Greta snarled, drawing her mace and brandishing it at the Khajiit.

"This one had other matters of great importance to attend to. Had this one known that such plans were laid and in progress, this one would've advised the King and the Commander, and would've personally waited outside the gates day and night so as to catch the elves in the act." Mercy responded calmly; her ears tilted back and her tail was trembling slightly, suggesting to Ralof that the calm mirror of her expression was a facade.

"What could be more important-"

"Greta. Enough." Ralof cut off the angry woman's rant, grabbing her arm and forcing her to point her weapon at the floor. "Accusations and assumptions won't fix any of this. Action will, and we need every man and woman at our command." He turned to look at Ulfric. "What would you have us do, my Jarl?"

"Send scouts and spies out. They've given us a month's reprieve, we should have plenty of time to find their fortress." The command was welcome, though Greta snarled at Mercy as she walked out to the barracks.

After a moment, only Ralof and Mercy stood before the king.

"Snow-Hammer. I hope that whatever you went looking for was worth the time spent?" Ulfric turned his gaze on Mercy, who nodded.

"This one discovered a group of cultists who sought to restore one of the ancient Dragon-Priests, an individual known as Miraak." She shuddered as the name rolled from her tongue, but shook her head and continued. "He had been trapped in one of the planes of Oblivion, and intended to return to Solstheim and enslave its inhabitants. He has been destroyed, so the island, and potentially Skyrim and other nations, is no longer threatened by his influence."

"Hmph. Well, it's some comfort, then, that you left and returned. What skill have you with removing people from hostile situations?" Ulfric stared her down for a moment, before she looked away.

"Sir? I thought you didn't-" Ralof began, but Ulfric hushed him.

"Mercy has some experience, sir. She may also have some ability to make it so their absence will not be missed, This one is not sure however. She hasn't ever tried it before." Mercy responded hesitantly.

"Good. Both of you, come with me." Ulfric stood and strode into the war room. Without thinking, Ralof followed him; he saw Mercy follow a moment later.

Ulfric led them to one of the upper balconies, one that overlooked the mountains. He waited a moment, ensuring that no-one could hear before he spoke again.

"There are spies among our people. I don't know who, and I don't know what they were offered, but I fear I cannot trust them concerning this. I know exactly where the Thalmor are holding my sister and her son."

Ralof was dumbstruck, and stared at Ulfric for a moment before he regained his senses.

"Why would anyone betray our cause when we have come this far?" He asked quietly, rage replacing surprise.

"Holding one's home and family hostage can be quite the leverage. Likely they want something to return to when the war is over." Mercy murmured. Ulfric nodded.

"Be that as it may, we'll weed out the traitors later. For now, you two can be trusted. I know this much, because you've both had ample opportunity and reason given to turn, and neither of you have. The Thalmor are holding Frigga and Bayard, alongside other Stormcloak allies, just north of Solitude in the Thalmor Embassy. If you two are willing to do this, I will arrange for a guide-"

"Pardon me, sire, but this one already knows the way. She has snuck into the Embassy before, on other matters." Mercy interrupted. Ulfric's face twitched, but he nodded.

"Would these 'other matters' have anything to do with the Blades, perchance? No matter, we will discuss that later. Ralof, what say you?" The King turned his storm-gray eyes to Ralof, who nodded.

"If that is where you want me to go, then by all means I will go. I just hope I'm more help than hindrance, matters of stealth were never my forte." He heard Mercy chuckle beside him, and made a note to growl at her later.

"Then go. You don't have much time."

 

* * *

"How you managed to get us in still amazes me." Ralof whispered.

"Tss! It'll be for naught if we get caught!" Mercy hissed in reply; the Nord nodded, watching as she picked the lock. They had crawled under the fence by the side of the Embassy, now Mercy was trying to get them into the building that housed the prison cells; they hadn't yet discussed how to get back out again (though Ralof had seen Mercy checking through a small ring of keys before they got there).

The infiltration went rather smoothly; Mercy dropped the one guard outside the building, while Ralof put down two others patrolling the courtyard. The only hitch came in the form of a grizzled captain. Ralof heard him enter the building after them, heard the startled intake of breath-

Then a wheeze and a thud. The Nord whirled, and saw the captain collapsed on the ground; Mercy towered over the Altmer, gripping a wicked-looking dagger freshly misted with blood. She regarded the body calmly, taking a key and the fat coinpurse at the mer's hip before picking the captain up and hauling him back outside into the snow. She returned a few minutes later and tossed the purse to Ralof, who caught it deftly as he stared at her.

"I didn't even see you move." He commented quietly. Mercy shrugged.

"This one has a few tricks up her sleeves." She murmured, quietly stalking across the room to the stairs, then down to the prison door.

 

Ralof felt the blood drain from his cheeks as he looked down at the makeshift prison; instruments of torture were laid out and crusted with old blood, and the cells themselves were tiny. He could see Frigga and her son curled up tightly in one corner of the closer cell, with a Stormcloak soldier comforting them in hushed tones from the next cell.

Ralof looked back to where Mercy had been, and found himself alone.

"Mercy?!" He whispered, otherwise freezing.

"Relax, Ralof. Mercy is right here. Is good to make sure that we weren't followed, yes?" She purred from behind him. "Now come on. We need to get them and get out before the guards are found." She vaulted over the bannister easily, landing on her feet with little more than a soft thump. Ralof sighed, preferring the stairs to a jump. Mercy was working on the first lock as he approached the cells, her Khajiiti accent rolling her words as she whispered assurances to the imprisoned.

"How good are you at picking a lock?" She asked over her shoulder. Ralof shook his head.

"You forget, I'm a soldier. Not a… er…" The words died in his throat as he realized what he'd been about to say. Mercy winced anyway.

"Understood. Take this and go unlock the trapdoor over there." She handed him a rusty key.

"Mercy… I didn't-"

"Ralof. Please. Go unlock the trapdoor." She cut him off, her words taking a sharper tone.

He turned his back, heard her curse as her lockpick snapped, and sighed. He walked over to the trapdoor, unlocked and removed the padlock, and hauled the thick wooden door open.The door squeaked open behind him, and he heard Frigga and Bayard hurry out of the cell as Mercy moved to unlock the next one.

Within moments, they were all huddled around the trapdoor. Ralof eased himself onto the frozen ladder, testing it with his weight and making his way down into the darkness so he could help the others. Once his feet hit solid (cold) stone, he backed away from the ladder a few steps and gave a long, low whistle. One of the Stormcloak soldiers began climbing down the ladder, closely followed by Frigga and Bayard. The three shuffled away from the ladder. Ralof took an unlit torch from his belt, handing it to the soldier.

"Tss! They've found the captain! Hurry, hurry!" Mercy hissed from above; the other two Stormcloaks hurriedly clambered down the ladder, huddling with the one who had a torch. Ralof heard minor cursing, then backed up another step as Mercy dropped down the ladder to the ground. The door closed with a dull, heavy thud above them, and Mercy took the lead down the icy slopes into the darkness.

* * *

"And how do you propose we cover this up?" Ralof growled, seeing the embassy buzzing with activity (they had taken refuge in a nearby stand of trees).

"Simple. Wait here, yes?" Mercy purred in reply; the next moment, she shot up a tree and away through the branches. Ralof gave a silent roar of exasperation, then sat back to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

What seemed like an eternity later, he heard a faint roar and the dull sound of flapping wings.

"Wonderful. Now we have a dragon to-?!" He cut off, startled, as a massive orange-ish dragon swooped over the Embassy, bathing the building and guards in flame. The screams rose, as the dragon dove once again and released another gout of fire from its maw. Even those who escaped through the cave weren't safe - an odd shout caught them all in a dazed trance, waiting patiently for the dragon to devour them.

When it was over, the massive beast landed near the trees and lowered its head. Ralof drew his axe, alarmed, and watched in amazed silence as Mercy - his  Mercy- climbed from the dragon's back to the snowy ground.

"My time is done. Farewell,  thuri . May the winds favor you." The dragon rumbled. Mercy nodded, responding quietly, then stepping back to let the beast take wing and turn towards its home.

Ralof actively stared at the Khajiit. She met his gaze for a few moments, then glanced over the rest of the group.

"There will be a party here to investigate, and a snowstorm is coming from the north. We'd best move on before either one catches us." She said, simply. Then, she turned, and loped down the snowy road.

 

* * *

No matter how many times Ralof asked on the road back to Windhelm, Mercy never explained how she had been able to ride a  dragon of all things, much less convince it to destroy the Embassy. She always said "It's not time for you to know" or "Not yet, not yet." It was frustrating to no end!

"Mercy, I want to understand! How can I if you won't trust me?!" Ralof snarled as they entered the city.

"'I'm a soldier. Not a sneakthief.'" She replied coolly. He sighed.

"I didn't mean that. You know I didn't mean it. I didn't even say anything about a sneakthief." He rumbled.

"You didn't have to. It's a title, just like Thane or Jarl or Dovahkiin. It is so easily implied that people don't catch themselves until it's unnecessary to say anything. This one doesn't want you or anyone to walk on eggshells around her just because she isn't a Nord. Who is Mercy to tread on the rights of a Son or Daughter of Skyrim? Who is she to ask them not to speak their minds?" She bore her teeth at him in a painful approximation of a smile.

"Mercy…"

"Stop coddling me, Ralof! This one has plenty of stripes from men who thought her very existence was a blight to society. Once this war is over, this one is going to complete her obligations, then return to Elsweyr and her life of solitude." She snapped, turning and storming away to one of the market-quarters. Ralof stood, staring after the Khajiit, until a soft touch on his shoulder brought him back to himself.

"You should report to Ulfric. That way she has time to calm down before you talk to her again." Frigga offered quietly. Ralof sighed, and nodded.

* * *

The next time he saw Mercy, they were assaulting Solitude. She stayed close to Ulfric and Galmar, quickly disappearing from his sight until it was over. Then, when Ulfric addressed them all, she stood off to the would-be king's right, back a bit as if to make herself less present.

She didn't speak to him as the soldiers dispersed, instead silently accompanying him back to Riverwood. She stayed the night at the inn, and was gone the next morning.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragonborn must fulfill her original purpose, if Skyrim is truly to be safe. Doesn't mean she can't have a friend close at hand to take her home.  
> One would think traveling back from Sovngarde would be much more stressful than it appears to be, no?

He looked out at the expanse of Skyrim, stretching before him on all sides like a patchwork puzzle blanket.

"Thm-hmm… It is a beautiful sight, is it not?"

Ralof nodded, knowing his words would be wasted until they landed at the Throat of the World. His mind was elsewhere, as it was; news of Mercy's departure on Odahviing's back had reached him mere hours before the dragon had come to "collect" him. Odahviing had said that one so closely bound to the Dovahkiin should be there when she returned from her hunt.

> "You seem so confident, yet she has gone to Sovngarde. No-one returns from that fair land, save an immortal." Mikhael growled.
> 
> "Or a dov. Mercy is mortal in flesh, yes, but she is still of the dov. You underestimate her, human." The dragon lowered his head, to give the Redguard the full force of his gaze. After Mikhael paled almost the the same pallor of a Breton, Odahviing turned that petrifying gaze to Ralof. "And what of you, friend-of-Khajiit? Do you also doubt your champion?"
> 
> "I have seen too many strange things, I wouldn't put it past Mercy to defy death itself." Ralof answered softly.

Feeling the wind slow around him, Ralof came to himself, seeing High Hrothgar far below; he could barely glimpse the shockwaves in the clouds, marking the shouts of the Graybeards. The mountain peak loomed ever closer, and the faded shapes of other dragons circled the frozen stone. Shivering, Ralof pulled his cloak tighter around himself.

"Stay close, Mid-Joor." Odahviing rumbled, angling toward the mountain. Ralof hummed quietly, the sound lost to the whistle of the wind.

They landed on the stone. Odahviing let Ralof down onto the cold ground and sheltered him from the gaze of the other dragons with one massive wing. The ancient one, Paarthurnax, landed on the chiseled stone Word Wall, staring intently at Ralof and Odah; Ralof shuddered, kneeling in the snow to make himself look smaller and huddling in on himself. Above them, other dragons were making their descent to the stone to await the knell of either Alduin or Mercy.

* * *

Time passed. Ralof wasn't sure how much, only that every one of the dragons save Paarthurnax and Odahviing were as still as stone. Odahviing was thrumming in some unknown song, and Paarthurnax was shifting restlessly on his stone wall. Ralof shivered, silently begging Talos and whatever other gods would hear for Mercy's life.

Suddenly, the air filled with a static, like lightning was about to strike. There was a sensation that made his skin crawl, like two worlds were merging for a split second. The traces of a shout echoed among the suddenly alert Dov; the very stone seemed to start humming with anticipation, as light filled the cleared center of the mountain-peak. the light coalesced into a massive draconic form, then shrank into a more humanoid one.

The last word of the shout cracked through the air like lightning, and the figure collapsed to the ground.

"Mu los vomir!" One dragon shouted, leaping into the air. 

"Alduin Mahlaan!" Another roared, joining his brother. Others loosed various shouts, but they were lost to Ralof. He was focused on the Khajiit laying in the snow.

Odahviing nudged him forward, breaking him from his stunned silence.

"Mercy!" Ralof cried, bounding forward to her side and lifting her up out of the snow.

"Rrr…" She shivered in his arms, the start of his name purring from her lips as she pressed against him.

"Hmm… her return to the living seems to have left its mark. Take her home, Jur. Have her return to me when she is well enough to walk the path alone. Till then I will see to bringing my wayward brethren into the fold of the Way of the Voice." Paarthurnax rumbled, taking wing. Odahviing came down from his perch, lowering his head so that Ralof could easily balance Mercy on his back. The Nord climbed up behind Mercy, wrapping one arm around her and gripping one of Odahviing's spines with the other hand.

"I will take you to her refuge; when she wakes, tell her that she will remain my thuri. I have no desire to be turned to the Old One's tyrannical 'Way'." The dragon rumbled, taking wing.

Ralof nodded, squinting as the wind whipped up into his face. He pulled Mercy closer, watching the world below speed past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I managed to forget this chapter before. Oops.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One friend meets another, and Ralof gets some new (albeit more traditional) armor.

Serana unnerved him from the start. She'd whisked Mercy away into the shadows of the "Refuge" and had pointed him in another direction when he asked where he was supposed to sleep. The Wispmother who acted as caretaker had been more helpful, showing him to the bath-spring and to the bunk room, then showing him where the food and drink were kept. Once his belly was full and he was clean and trimmed, Ralof gratefully fell into one of the single beds.

When he woke, he wasn't sure if it was morning or night. The humming of the machinery had dimmed to a faint whirring in the background, and it felt as if Ralof had slept for centuries. Serana was staring at him from across the room, though he found her to be less unsettling than she had been before.

"So, where did Hunter dredge you up? Clearly you are a Stormcloak, though why she would choose you as a companion I do not know." The amber-eyed woman smiled at him, pearly fangs glittering menacingly.

"I met Mercy on the road to Helgen, when she first came to Skyrim. I suggested to her that she join the Stormcloaks, and her dragon-friend came and got me when she left for Sovngarde." Ralof answered truthfully, unnerved by the vampire's familiarity with Mercy.

"Ah, so you are the one she mutters about in her sleep. I wondered who was giving her such conflicted dreams." Serana's smile gentled.

"What-.. You watch her sleep?" Ralof stuttered, paling.

"When we are on the road and need someone on watch, yes. She can be surprisingly vocal. But, that isn't mine to discuss. I do believe she is awake; she's in the forge, and if I heard Odahviing correctly you have messages from various individuals that need to be conveyed to her." She stood, and gestured for him to follow.

 

They found Mercy carefully working a piece of glowing armor, shaping it to afford more protection without adding weight. Ralof turned to thank Serana, and found himself alone in the doorway.

"Remind me to thank her later. Ralof, if you would come here for a few minutes, this one needs your help with something." Mercy purred, not looking up. Ralof sighed, and nodded. He stood where she asked him to, and watched as she held the armor up to his shoulders.

"What are you doing?" He asked after a moment.

"Making this fit you instead of whoever it was originally intended for. Some nameless bandit had it locked away in a chest, and this one thought it would do you more good than it would me. Mercy has a battleaxe as well, if you want it." She took the armor back to the workbench, heating the metal and adjusting it to better fit Ralof's shoulders. He stared at her, stunned.

"Why?" He whispered, after a few moments. Mercy actually looked up at him then, regarding him with ambivalent eyes.

"Surely it's understood that Mercy doesn't want one of her few close friends dying in combat, that she doesn't want to lose one of the two people who still see her as Mercy the Khajiit, not Dovahkiin or Thane or thuri or any of that other nonsense," she replied, her voice as quiet as his had been. Ralof didn't reply, merely watching as she put the armor aside to work on a pair of gloves.

Some time later (she hadn't had to do much to the gloves, just replace the leather), he thought to relay the messages he'd been given."Odahviing asked me to tell you he would continue to hail you as his… therri?"

"Thuri." Mercy corrected.

"Yes, that. Also, Paarthurnax asked that you return to him when you were well enough to climb to the Throat of the World on your own. I think he wished to speak solely to you, but I don't know."

"Understood." Mercy responded, carefully comparing the boots she was working on to the boots he'd been wearing. "Mercy will go once she has finished this."

"May… May I see that axe you mentioned before?" Ralof asked.

"Hesitation doesn't suit you, my friend. Of course you can." Mercy chuckled, setting down the boot she'd been working on. She reached down to the cooling-trough next to the forge, and lifted a gleaming ebony-handled axe. Mercy handed it to Ralof, silently going back to her work.

He marvelled at the weapon for a few minutes, weighing it in his hands and tracing the runes carved in the haft. The head confused him a bit; it was made of a substance like no metal he'd ever seen before, and the blade was razor-sharp and translucent.

"Dragonbone," Mercy muttered, before he could ask. "Came from a revered named Naaslaarum, up north in the ruins of an old Snow-elf temple."

"I didn't know dragonbone could be forged into weapons." Ralof commented quietly, keeping his expression neutral.

"Normally it can't. One of the Skaal on Solstheim taught me how to manipulate the bones and scales into weapons and armor." Mercy hummed. She carefully stitched another piece of leather into the sole of the second boot, before replacing its base and setting it next to its mate. She inspected both once more, then handed them and the other pieces of armor to Ralof. "Here. these should fit you properly, now.  This one can enchant the axe if you wish, but she can't undo it if you change your mind."

Ralof shook his head. "No… no, you've already done enough work on it. Thank you."

"Then at least let me enchant the armor so it doesn't weigh you down as much." She smiled at him (and it was an honest smile, not one of her 'I wish I could slap you without leaving scars' smiles), and snatched the chestpiece of the armor away, darting out of the forge and across the hall. Ralof sat still, amused a bit by the childish manner she'd suddenly adopted. He heard metal sliding across wood, then a deep humming.

She came back several minutes later, holding the now-glowing armor out to him.

"Here. You should find it lighter than before, and it'll protect you better from spells."

Ralof took the armor, weighing it in his hands. "Do you want me to try it on now?"

"That would help. It's a little harder to manipulate enchanted metal, but Mercy can do it." Mercy nodded.

Ralof sighed and stood. Carefully, he unbuckled the various straps holding the different pieces of metal together, then pulled on the leather padding. The metal followed after, and Mercy helped him secure it into place. Next came the boots, then the gloves, then the bear-head helm. Once he had everything on, Ralof stepped back to let Mercy inspect the various fittings.

"Looks like it fits perfectly. Does anything pinch?" She asked.

"It's a bit tight in places, but nothing wear won't help." Ralof responded honestly. The boots felt a bit tight, but they were essentially new; the leather would wear and stretch after a while.

"Give the axe a few swings, then. See how it feels, if it needs any adjustments. There's a training dummy there behind you." Mercy gestured to something behind him. Ralof nodded; turning, he brought the axe across the air; it collided with the dummy with a satisfying "thunk", and straw flew out of the dummy.

"It's a bit unbalanced; the head is heavier than the haft." He commented.

"Give it here, then." Mercy took the axe back, weighing it in her hands before walking back over to the workbench. She walked over to one chest, pulled out a glowing ruby, then returned to the workbench. Ralof watched, curious, as the Khajiit carefully heated a piece of ebony, pulling it into a fine wire. She took the thin strips of metal and wove them around the blood-red gem, binding it to the butt of the axe. She wove the wire up the haft of the axe, up to the last of the runes.

"What do they mean?" Ralof asked, trying to read the ancient script.

"It's a selection from a word wall Mercy had found a while ago, that can be seen as a blessing of sorts on its own.  Lahney voth ahkrin ahrk zin . Live with courage and honor." She replied. The ancient dragon-language rolled from her tongue like she'd been born speaking it.

"Where did you learn to read the language, if I may ask?" He pressed. She smiled at him.

"A Khajiit must have some secrets, my friend. A trustworthy source taught me. Leave it there."

"Very well." He nodded. She handed the axe back to him, then turned and walked out of the forge.

After a moment, he followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My reference for the Nordic Carved Armor was from here:  
> http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Nordic_Carved_Armor  
> The reference for Ralof's Dragonbone axe is here:  
> http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Dragonbone_Battleaxe  
> The "Refuge" described in this chapter is Aemer's Refuge (Continued) over on the Skyrim Nexus:  
> http://www.nexusmods.com/skyrim/mods/37450


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minor fluff. Mercy and Ralof indulge in some snowy fun. Might there be something under those rough, warrior exteriors?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Very) Slight fluff. Also, very short chapter.  
> Felt like dropping a blatant hint or two. Also Mercy was feeling playful, and wanted to pull some snowy shenanigans.  
> I love my Skyrim Muse. Just wish she'd let the others get a few words in edgewise.

Over the course of the next few months, Ralof ventured into many different situations with Mercy. They delved into the depths of several different dwemer ruins (which, he was shocked to discover, weren't actually haunted), routed several different vampiric (or otherwise dark-natured) covens, and even brushed the border of Hammerfall. He was honestly amazed when she shrugged and said this was normal for her; the land that seemed so peaceful was beginning to seem more and more like a facade.

"Don't overthink it." Mercy said, after he'd voiced his thoughts, "You'll become suspicious of everything and nothing will ever seem right again. Let it go and enjoy the moment." She went back to stargazing after that.

Ralof didn't respond, instead turning over and letting his thoughts lull him to sleep.

* * *

The next day they traveled into the Pale, and Mercy had an eagerness in her step that Ralof couldn't recall seeing before.

"This one has something amazing to show you. Follow close, yes?" She grinned, before dashing off the path and out into the snowy wilds. Ralof took off after her, struggling to keep up with the fleet-footed Khajiit.

"Mercy! Mercy, please! You're- Too- Fast!" Ralof shouted, laughing, dropping behind after a few minutes.

"This one is called Quicksilver for a good reason, yes? Mercy will slow down, she does not want you to be left behind and lost." She chuckled in reply, looping back behind him.

 

The journey was lighthearted after that; Mercy caught him upside the head with a ball of snow, and he knocked her into a deep snow drift in exchange.

The un-warrior-like shriek that pierced his ears was worth the snow-crusted cat that struggled back out of the snow. Ralof grinned at her as she tried to get her balance, then took off in a desperate attempt to escape retaliation. He knew it was futile, but he was feeling childish, and he'd done the same thing with Gerdur when he was small. He heard Mercy sprinting after him, felt her hands collide with his shoulderplates, felt her weight crash into him and drive him face-first into the snow.

It was worth it for the peals of laughter bubbling from her lips, the relaxed and joyful nature shining through her normally passive expression. Ralof felt… relaxed around Mercy. She brought out a side of him that had refused to grow up just because of the war, just because he'd been the man of the house when his da had died.

The Khajiit knocked on his helmet, bringing him back to cold, snowy reality.

"Ralof, you were thinking again, no? While Mercy enjoys snowy antics as much as the next person, we really should go if we're to get there before nightfall and that-" she pointed to a thick bunch of clouds gathering to the southeast, "catches us. Come on. You will like this, methinks." She got up out of the snowy bank, helped him back to his feet, and took off at an easy lope. Ralof shook his head, making a note to clear the snow out of his boots later.

* * *

* * *

There were Dwemer ruins to the north; he could see them easily, yet Mercy was focused on a lone caged-in building. She pulled him over to the lift, and, as snow started to fall, pulled the lever to take them down into the earth.

 

Blackreach was something else. The ceiling reflected the stars of the surface world, and the soft glow of the various plants and fungi, once you got used to it, was more than enough light to see by.

The giant that wandered the world alarmed Ralof, of course, and the Falmer were another matter entirely, but the dark world of Blackreach was awe-inspiring.

"How did you find this?" He asked in a whisper.

"Task from a mad wizard. Wanted Dwemer knowledge to get at what he thought was the heart of Lorkhaj. He was wrong, of course. Lorkhaj's heart is impossible to find, yes? The Dwemer may have discovered it, but Mercy would be willing to bet it was taken with them when they vanished." Mercy purred in reply.

"Gods… how long has it been here, I wonder?" he breathed.

"Longer than anyone alive today, save perhaps one of the ancient dragons. Is… odd, no? To be standing in a different world, yet to know it has been a part of our world since one's birth." She paused, lost in thought.

A gong-like sound rang through the cavern, startling them both. Ralof heard a dragon roar.

After that, he was too focused on staying on his feet while Mercy half-dragged him down a rather steep hill into a ravine. She pulled him back under the stone as the dragon soared overhead; Ralof would later swear his heart stopped. They waited for what seemed like an eternity, listening for the beast to return to whatever den it had made for itself.

 

Needless to say, Ralof was glad to leave Blackrock for the surface. Such an alien landscape was proving to be far too deadly and unpredictable for his tastes.

"It was beautiful, though…" He mused, as they rode the lift back to Mzinchaleft.

"Agreed. Perhaps this one will go deal with the dragon later, yes? then we can travel below safely. Blackrock extends through most of the Rift and the Reach, Mercy has found."

"Thank you for showing me. I've… I've never seen such a thing before. I doubt I will again." He smiled at the Khajiit, and she chuckled.

"Stay with me, and you'll see far stranger. This, Mercy promises." She grinned at him, her blue eyes glittering red in the dim light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure that's the lift at Mzinchaleft. Could be wrong, Mercy won't provide details yet.
> 
> EDIT 2/26:: Oh, hey! she gave me the rest of the chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to Solstheim leads to understandings and truth-findings; perhaps it really is a bad idea to travel during a blizzard!

It had been a month since Blackreach. Mercy had mentioned she needed to return to Solstheim, something about a venture she'd joined in on. Ralof asked to come along as soon as he heard of it, which made her smile.

"Of course. This one would love your company, my friend." She purred, regarding him with some odd emotion masked in her eyes.

 

So, they sailed for Solstheim. The Northern Maiden carried them from the cold reaches of Windhelm to the ash-covered island, where the smoking corpse of Red Mountain could be seen from any location. The ash-storms alone were almost enough to make him regret his decision, but Ralof told himself that it was another adventure, another chance to see this enigma that was the Khajiiti Dragonborn in a foreign environment. He felt some odd stirring of emotion, yes, but he wanted to understand her before he would let it grow.

What he learned from the start was that she respected only those who respected her. Several guards made scathing remarks about both of them, comments of "mind yourselves, outlanders!" and distrustful scoffs. Mercy nodded to them, but nothing more.

He didn't like Ralis from the start; the man had a crazed edge to his expression. And the tomb… well, he didn't know the name Ahzidal, but it still stirred up some primal instinct to flee from the place. Mercy admitted, once they left, that she was bothered by the name as well, but she could hear the whispers of a word-wall beneath the rubble.

* * *

The first Black Book they'd found was a surprise; as Mercy had gingerly picked up the tome, it had fallen open and oozing green tentacles had wrapped around her.

"What in the-! Mercy!!" Ralof shouted, reaching out to grab the cat, to toss the book out of her hands.

His hand had passed right through her and the book. Shocked, sickened, he reeled back and fell against the wall, feeling helpless. Lost for what else to do, Ralof turned his face upward and began praying desperately.

 

About an hour later (he thought it was an hour, but it was impossible to tell in these damned mines), the tentacles withdrew to the book and Mercy stumbled back. Quickly, she tucked the tome into her pack.

"Mercy! By the gods, what was that?!" Ralof shouted, bounding up to his feet in an instant.

"Quiet, my friend… your voice hurts my head when it is so loud." Mercy chided softly. "That was a black book. Such tomes are scattered all over Tamriel, though Mercy has found many here in Solstheim. They are portals to the realm of Apocrypha, Hermaeus Mora's plane of Oblivion. Mercy always tries not to open them when she picks them up, but they seem to come open of their own volition when they are first found. Forgive me, Mercy did not know we would find one here. Otherwise, she would have warned you."

"Apocrypha… the forbidden library? You were  in  the forbidden library?"

"Yes, and this one would ask you to be wary of them. Hidden knowledge is often hidden for a reason."

With that chastisement, Mercy tucked the book into her satchel and continued onward. Ralof blinked, wanting to question the regret he heard in her voice, but didn't press.

She explained soon enough.

"First, let me make clear. Learning a shout does change you on a fundamental level. But it does not make you a better or worse person for knowing it. How you use it controls that.

"Khajiit had to learn and use, multiple times, a shout to control the minds of those around her. From beasts to men to dragons. It… left a bitter taste in this one's mouth. Mercy refuses to use it still." She sighed, looking out to the setting sun. "We should return to town, there is likely an ash-storm on its way."

 

The storm caught them just before they reached Mercy's house in Raven Rock; both pulled off every scrap of armor that had been exposed to the raging storm and scrubbed it, not caring how much skin they exposed. The thoroughness Mercy insisted on when cleaning her armor made Ralof wonder how she had coped the first time…

"What happened the first time you got into an ash-storm?"

The glare she gave him was venomous enough to make any being flinch.

"Ash. Ash everywhere, even in places Mercy did not know it could get. This one is quite happy to have cloaks, now…"

"What about snow, while I think of it? I rather doubt you find it all that often in the southern reaches of Tamriel." He pressed.

Mercy responded with a soft, unhappy rumble.

"Maybe another time."

* * *

The Skaal village astounded him, though. The ancient culture that was barely present in Skyrim still bled strong in their thickly-accented words; the armor Mercy had retailored for him matched their style, though it gleamed more brightly than that of the shaman and the others.

"Ah, I wondered who she was making it for." The blacksmith, Baldor, commented. Ralof looked up from inspecting his helm, and stared at the man.

"I'm sorry?"

"The armor. I showed her how to make it, then she made a whole set. Said she would be giving it to a close friend." Baldor grinned. "She must think very highly of you. That set's made with the finest steel and ebony I've ever seen; I think the ebony came from the Raven Rock mine."

"She said she'd found it in some bandit's nest…" Ralof trailed off, looking for the Khajiit.

"Likely she thought you might read more into it than what she meant. Of course… her intent may have changed since then." Baldor shrugged, then pointed over to where Mercy spoke to the Shaman. "Ask her. She's the embodiment of honesty, which I understand is surprising for Khajiit. She's a liar about those things which she must keep secret for one reason or another, but she is honest about everything else. What was it she said… 'q'zi no vano thzina ualizz' i think it was? something about contradictions marking the truth."

"When I contradict myself, I am telling the truth. It is a quote from one of the few Khajiiti books. We are not great writers, but the written word can convey much meaning, yes? It was part of a manifesto from an organization similar to the Stormcloaks; they were called the Renrijra Krin, the Laughing Mercenaries. They fought to drive out the Count of Leyawiin, and even from Skyrim we hear their murmurs against the Thalmor and the Aldmeri Dominion." Mercy murmured, strolling over to them. "You give up my secrets, Baldor?" she laughed.

"You're the one who lied about where his armor came from." Baldor chided.

"About that… Why?" Ralof turned his gaze on the Khajiit, whose smile softened.

"I have seen how you Nords can be about gifts. I didn't have the energy to argue with you at the time, so it seemed easier to say I had found it, rather than admitting that i had made it with you in mind." She responded, chuckling at him. Ralof wasn't sure whether to be offended or amused, and gave up with a growl. Mercy laughed outright, along with Baldor.

"C'mon. We've hunting to do; there's been word that there's an affliction of ice wraiths, and they need culling before they venture too close to the village." she said, gently tugging on Ralof's arm. He stood with a grumble (he'd been settled, too!), and followed her into the frozen tundra.

* * *

The hunting was excellent that day and the next. Ralof killed at least ten wraiths himself, and he saw Mercy kill another nine. It was getting cold at night, but they both counted on being back in the village before nightfall on the third day.

Except for the blizzard.

It set in on the third day, while they were routing a cave of draugr and necromancers. The snow rose quickly, and Ralof was half-tempted to insist they stay in the cave for the night. Even as a Nord, he was chilled by the winds and blinded by the snow as they pressed out into the storm.

"Perhaps we should turn back, no? We can dig a way out once the storm has passed." Mercy suggested, echoing his own instincts.

"And what of those they send to look for us? What if we're trapped here and they're lost?" He retorted. "We might be able to make it. We just need to stick together and keep moving."

Whatever her response was, it was lost to the winds. They pushed on for a long time, making slow progress, but managing to stay relatively straight (from what little he could tell).

He only noticed that Mercy had fallen behind because he reached over for her hand and found nothing but cold air. Shielding his eyes against the snow, He turned back and barely saw her collapsed in the field of white.

"Mercy? Mercy, come on! Surely we don't have much further to go!" He yelled. The Khajiit didn't respond, so he waded back and tried to shake her.

Ralof's heart skipped. Mercy felt frozen, like a piece of fur-covered ice. She was still breathing, but she was deathly cold. without another thought, Ralof pulled her into his arms, turned,and ran (to the best of his ability) on through the deepening drifts.

 

It took an eternity for him to get back to the village; once there, one healer whisked Mercy away from him, while another guided him to a warm hut and a roaring fire. The village shaman, Frea, ordered him to eat and sleep before he worried about the Dragonborn. Ralof grudgingly agreed, convinced by the warmth and the hunger in his belly.

"She is strong, Ralof. She will be fine." The motherly woman assured him.

"I wish I were as sure." He mumbled, allowing himself to be shuffled away to the fire with a bowl of hot food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't figure out who was gonna be half-frozen; sometimes it was Mercy, sometimes it was Ralof. Yes, kitten has herself a nice thick pelt, but she's still a Elsweyrian by birth, so she's used to warm sands.


	9. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enough with the lies and sickness... Ralof finally gets a few answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reading through this, trying to get inspired again, and I noticed this section was missing. Oops.

He waited for four days to ask about Mercy; by then, most of the warmth had returned to his limbs and he had recovered from the bone-chilling sickness that had caught both him and the Khajiit. Frea had refused to even hear his requests at first, only relenting when the healers said he was as well as he had been before.

"I wish I could say she has recovered as completely as you have. This sickness... I had not seen it until this winter when the wraiths came. It pierces down to the bone and kills from the inside. She is very, very sick, and I do not know if we can help her any further; it's too cold here, she needs warm sunlight. You may need to take her back to Skyrim, but I do not know if she will make it through the boat trip." The shaman admitted.

"If I bundle her as warmly as I can, do you think we'd make it?" He asked, feeling a tinge of desperation.

"I think it may be your best chance." Frea conceded, quietly opening the door of one of the other huts.

An older woman smiled at them both, gesturing them in.

"How is she?" Frea asked. The woman muttered something so thickly accented that Ralof couldn't understand, but the shaman seemed to comprehend the healer's meaning perfectly, and sighed.

"She is awake, though, I doubt she can understand anyone right now. Over here." She pulled Ralof over to a small sleeping-pad by the fire.

His heart lurched as he recognized Mercy, buried as she was under the furs. Her eyes were wide and glassy, and he could tell by her sweat-matted fur that she was caught with fever. She still didn't shiver, which bothered him (fevers usually had people caught with a chill, he remembered that from when Frodnar had been sick), but he didn't understand why she wouldn't be able to understand him.

"May I try to reach her? I know what you said, but…" He trailed off, glancing from the Khajiit up to the shaman.

"But you still have to try. I understand; I will go fetch a few of the villagers, and we will help you get her to the docks in Raven Rock. From there, I would plead that you take her somewhere warm, whatever need be. She will not survive Skyrim's winters in her current state. For now, do what you can, perhaps you will have better luck." Frea said nothing more, instead turning and exiting the hut.

 

Ralof turned his focus to Mercy again. Gently, ever so gently, he brushed a stray strand of her mane from her sweat-slick face; she twitched under his fingers.

"We made it, Mercy… We're back in the Skaal village, safe and sound. but… I'm sorry for convincing you to move on. We should've stayed in the cave, like you suggested. I should've listened to you, listened to my instincts instead of my stubbornness. Please… please wake up. I don't want my foolishness to cost you this dearly. I'll take us somewhere warm, alright? I don't know if I can get us to Elsweyr, since I doubt Nords are welcome in Cyrodiil right now and the other way is incredibly long, but I can at least take us to Hammerfell. I'm sure Ulfric won't mind; we need all the allies we can get against the Thalmor." He sighed, folding his hands in his lap.

"You're a walking contradiction, sometimes. You said back when we first spoke that you knew you couldn't change the minds of men, yet look now. You've allies in every hold of Skyrim, and across the entire island of Solstheim. I even heard a rumor that the ban keeping Khajiit out of the various cities might be lifted. It'd be a hold-by-hold basis, of course, but it's still something to consider. You're the gentlest person I know, yet you're the most deadly when you're protecting someone or something. You have an innocence about you, yet your eyes… gods. Your eyes speak of untold years of pain. Or… they did. Now they don't say anything."

"Please, Mercy… wake up. It feels as if the world itself will come undone without you."

He closed his eyes, then, and prayed. He prayed that any one of the gods would listen, that anyone who could hear would listen, and answer, and save the Khajiit. She looked… frail, sickened as she was.

"You love her, then?" The healer croaked from behind him.

"What?! N-no! She's my friend, my shield-sister. I… I don't know her well enough to l-... to think of her as anything more than that."

A soft murmur came from under the furs, drawing his attention then.

"Mercy?!" He swallowed, forcing himself not to shout.

"If you wish to ask questions, this one will answer honestly. My head hurts too much to lie right now." The khajiit murmured, closing her eyes. Ralof swallowed, thousands of questions burning up in an instant.

"I… how do you feel?" He stuttered, adjusting so the fire wasn't at his back. She blinked at him, her eyes struggling to focus.

"This one feels as if a dragon has decided her chest is its new favorite seat. My head pounds as an orcish drum, my breath refuses to be caught, and my vision is blurring so much it is almost a waste of time to try and see you. Come now, Ralof. Surely there are secrets you wish to know about me." She gave him a pained approximation of a smile, closing her eyes and knitting her brows together. Ralof sighed.

"...very well… How is it that you are so skilled with a lockpick, yet you are not a thief?"

Mercy laughed outright, then coughed for several minutes afterward.

"I never said I wasn't. More than that, I'm one of the Guild's elite. I just pick my jobs carefully. I don't harm any who have done no harm themselves, or retrieve items stolen against our creed."

Ralof snorted, trying to mask his doubt. "Thieves have a creed? And how many marks have you had to kill?"

"None. We take gold, gems, and glittering items, not lives. That's the Dark Brotherhood's affair." She sighed, letting the vehemence die from her voice. "Thieves do have some honor. If a person is marked to be left alone, we leave them alone. We do not kill unless we have no other choice, we do not steal from those who cannot spare the coin. If there is a need somewhere, if there are people taxed to starvation, we step in and return what belongs to them by right. Thankfully…" she trailed off, swallowing another set of coughs. "Thankfully we have not seen such need in Skyrim, not in many centuries."

"And the skill in the tombs? What of that?" He pressed.

"This one has been sent to various tombs for various things. She has gone to Ustengrav by the request of the Greybeards, and to others for various mages at the College in Winterhold. There were words of power that were guarded by the ancients, and there were times I was merely curious."

"Fair enough...They're going to help me get you back to Raven Rock, alright? We'll go back to Skyrim, to Riverwood, and you can stay as long as you need to."

"No. I… I need-" She started to sit up, then broke off in coughing. Ralof sighed, waiting to be heard.

"You need rest. I've seen how you can be, Mercy; you'll kill yourself if you keep pushing on through all of this! Gods, I didn't even know if you were going to wake up for the past four days!" He tried not to shout the last bit, but he was honestly so exasperated with her that he didn't know what else to do. Mercy shrank back, leaning on her elbows with her ears tucked back against her skull.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat.

"He's right, Dragonborn. Alduin may be dead, but you're still needed. Take some time. Rest. Recover. Whatever you needs must do will still be there when you are well." Frea turned her cold gaze from Mercy to Ralof.

"We have a sled prepared if you two are finished. I will be waiting outside."

Ralof nodded, hearing Mercy rumble in frustration.

"This one isn't a cub to be coddled and hushed when she is sick." She muttered, otherwise relenting. Ralof sighed, offering her a hand up, then catching her when she stumbled.

"But you are someone who needs to know when to let others help her. C'mon. Let's head home." Ralof replied, forcibly keeping his voice neutral. Mercy didn't respond.


	10. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A thief watches over Riften, and the cold seeps into her chest as winter fights to keep spring away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gonna look through Mercy's eyes for a moment; otherwise Ralof will be quite lost next chapter...

 

> Ralof cursed himself for a week, damning his luck. The morning after they arrived in Windhelm, Mercy had vanished with the bitterly cold wind. Knowing her, he could only guess that she'd spirited herself off to Markarth or Falkreath; she knew (he hoped) better than to disappear to one of the northern holds.
> 
> With little left to do, he made the trek back to Riverwood; he'd seen her vanish in plain sight in the forest, he didn't want to try and follow her when she was that skilled.
> 
> "I'll go to Riften after I've checked on Gerdur and the rest." He grumbled.

 

 

* * *

 

It was growing warmer in the pine forests; spring was underway, and summer was fast approaching.

Mercy sighed, watching from the rooftops as Riften prepared for a spring festival (the third one that month; for Kynarthi's sake, how many did these crazy people need?). Brynjolf had her on overwatch, while he dealt directly with the people.

She let out a rattling cough, shivering as a brisk spring breeze swept past her.

"Gods damn this… Stupid little Mercy, should be in Elsweyr. Warmer there, sweet-milks and proper fondues with proper moon sugar..." she rasped, watching the flood of merchants enter the city.

"You're sure you're up for this, lass? That's quite a cough you've got."

She whirled, barely keeping her footing.

"Bryn! Y-you know better than to sneak up on-" She broke off, a hacking cough tearing her breath away. Brynjolf grabbed her shoulder, steadying her as the fit passed.

"Normally I can't even dream of surprising you, lass. Since you came back you've been coughing up a storm, and It's hard to drag you away from the fires. Even Vex and Sapphire are worried. Mercy, what is wrong?" Steadying hands wrapped around her shoulders, tensing and losing their gentleness.

Mercy sighed, trying to ignore the cold, bitter pain in her chest. "Mercy was…  I   was… I… it's some form of sickness spreading over Solstheim and Morrowind. It hurts like Oblivion, but I'll be ok. I just need to work through it. I'd go to my sire in Elsweyr if I could, but.."

"I'll have Tonilia speak to Ri'saad. From what I hear they're bound for Elsweyr once the festival is over. And until then, lass, take the day-"

"Damn it all, I'm not a cub to be coddled Ralof!" Mercy snapped, feeling anger and desperation roil up in her chest and make it feel even colder. Brynjolf stopped, understanding green eyes turning blank.

"Ralof… the captain that went with you to Solstheim. He was trying to make sure you got home safe?" The red-haired Guildmaster pushed.

"He didn't know. I… I couldn't tell him. I needed space, how could I tell him that after the blizzard, after Nocturnal had to help me  convince  Sithis it wasn't my time to die?" She took a rattling breath, staving off a fit.

"If that's the case, I'll speak to Ri'saad, convince him I'll fence his goods while he takes you back to Elsweyr. If death has come for you once then you need to get your cure as quickly as possible and not continue living on borrowed time. Would any of the caravans have everything you need already?"

"As far as I'm aware, only a few tribes know the exact cure."

Brynjolf nodded. "I'm guessing the plague isn't just in Solstheim and Hammerfell then. Meet me by the gate; I'll send you along, and send Ralof after you when he comes here searching."

Mercy blinked, and saw the tip of the Guildmaster's hood as the man who had become her foster-brother slipped back into the streets. She took another rattling breath and darted across the rooftops, willing Nocturnal's shadow-cloak to surround her in warm invisibility. She was darkness, she was the breath of the wind, she was nothingness.

The caravan was waiting for her at the gates. Brynjolf smiled at her, nodding as he shouldered the last of the khajiit packs.

"Go with speed, my sister, and may our Lady favor you. Come back safely."'

With that, the Master of the Thieves' Guild turned and walked back into town. Ri'saad smiled at her knowingly, and he had one of the others hand her a cloak and hood.

"Come; warm sands beckon us home." The old cat murmured. Mercy nodded, sparing one last glance at Riften before following the caravan on their south-bound trek.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralof learns about the runes on his armor, and finds out he is NOT a desert-dweller.

Ralof sighed, wading through the festivities and searching for Mercy. He'd already mistaken three other Khajiit for his snow-bleached friend, but he'd heard nothing from her contacts in the other holds, and there had been a rumor that Riften's newest Thane had been sighted among the Khajiiti caravan (which had conveniently disappeared by the time he arrived in Riften), so his best guess was that she was in the rickety fishing-hub.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and a firmer-than-normal grip pulled him away from the throng. Ralof's hand jerked up to the pommel of his axe...

Only it was no longer there. He turned, or the world spun around him, he wasn't sure; all he knew was the next moment he was on his back on the ground. A redheaded nord was smiling down at him, with the axe Mercy crafted for him on his shoulder.

"There you are. And quite heavily armed and armored, too; this is a fine bit of work, lad." The other nord grinned. Ralof bared his teeth in a snarl.

"That isn't yours. A very dear friend of mine made it for me, so I would suggest you give it back." He rumbled, getting back to his feet. The thief laughed outright.

"Oh, believe me, Ralof. I know how fine Mercy's work is, she would kill me if I stole something she'd made specifically for someone else's hand. Name's Brynjolf, just Bryn to our mutual Khajiiti friend. I promised her I'd get you on your way once you finally arrived, and it just so happens I've already fulfilled my promise to Ri'saad as well; I'll be escorting you to where she is, if you're willing to follow me for a time." Brynjolf gave another blinding smile, then handed the axe back to Ralof and turned to walk back out into the crowd.

His mind spinning, Ralof hesitated for one split second before bolting after the thief.

* * *

He had to admit, the Ragged Flagon wasn't as sleazy as the guards had made it out to be; it wasn't necessarily a comfortable place, but the mead was excellent and the food was cheap.

"You're the one, eh? Never thought Kitten would fall for a Nord, but who am I t' judge?" A grizzled old Imperial rumbled, sitting at the seat next to him.

"Wonder if he's as innocent as contacts make him out to be?" A blond nordic woman chuckled.

"Delvin. Vex. Leave the poor lad be. Mercy trusts him, that should be enough for both of you, for all of us in fact." Brynjolf chided; the two backed off, Delvin retreating to a table with a bottle of mead and Vex walking off and vanishing in the shadows. Ralof let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Contacts?" He asked, as Brynjolf sat down next to him.

"You know what we are, lad. Don't play dumb." The redheaded nord's voice dropped a note, taking on an ominous tone.

"You're the Thieves' Guild. Yet, somehow, I've checked my coinpurse twice now and I've still got every gold piece I had when I left home, save the few I've spent."

Brynjolf chuckled, then held his hand out. "Let me see your breastplate. I want to show you something." Ralof hesitated, glanced about the cistern, then unstrapped and pulled off the metal. Brynjolf took it, turned it so that the back was facing up, and pointed to a set of symbols carved inconspicuously onto the shoulders.

"Mercy has a mind and soul I can't even begin to fathom; this symbol here" he pointed to a dwemer-looking rune centered on the top area of the backplate, "means 'Protected'. It's a Shadowmark; it means that no Thief will touch you, lest they wish to answer to myself, Mercy, or our other Elite, Karliah. And believe you me, no-one would survive an encounter like that. These others mean something, as well. This lot-" here, he pointed to what looked like an all-seeing eye surrounded by Dwemer writing on the left shoulder, "-means you have the protection of the Arch-Mage, while these-" A handprint and several ominous-looking runes on the right,"-mean certain death for any member of the Dark Brotherhood found to have killed you." Brynjolf got a rather amused look on his face. "Damn, lad, I do believe she loves you. She's basically warning anyone from every guild she has any weight with that you are not to be harmed, lest she visits her considerable wrath upon them."

Ralof blinked, opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and blinked again.

"She has weight with the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Doesn't seem the type, does she?" Delvin laughed. "She was here on their behalf not too long ago. From what I understand, she's one of the most important members of their little group, and they're growin' like no-one's business. Lotsa imps disappearin' too... even heard the Emperor himself was assassinated last year. All very hush-hush, you understand."

"I've seen her when she's enraged; I wouldn't put murder past her in that state." one of the other patrons, a Redguard woman, piped in. "Her eyes turn yellow and silver, and she loses all expression. All of it. It's like she dies inside, and usually after the irritant is dealt with she disappears for anywhere 'tween a few hours and a few days. Then, she comes back as her normal self."

Ralof braced himself against the bar subconsciously, his mind reeling. Mercy, an assassin? He almost couldn't believe it, but…

He remembered the first dragon he'd seen her kill, how her stance, her eyes, her very nature had changed. She'd faced death, passed beyond it, and returned mostly unscathed. She was a thief, a liar, and-

He stopped himself.

"How much do I not know about Mercy?" He asked pointedly, turning to face Brynjolf. The Guildmaster blanched.

"I think a better question is how much do you know?" The redhead replied. Ralof thought a moment, then spoke again:

"She is the Last Dragonborn. She is the Arch-Mage. She is one of your elite. Friend of the Skaal, Daedric champion… that's what I know about. I know the last because she owns damn near every daedric artifact known to legend, not because she told me anything. Now, what else am I missing?"

"Let me see…" Brynjolf mused. "She is Listener for the Dark Brotherhood, Harbinger of the Companions, one of the Dawnguard… that's only here. In Elsweyr, she's one of the highest-rank of her tribe. Or, she was. From what I understand her departure was sudden and ugly… something about slavers looking for female Cathay and Suthay to turn into dancers and other less savory things."

"Cathay?" Ralof asked. Bryn chuckled.

"Cathay and cathay-raht are Khajiit with feet flat on the ground like us. Suthay and suthay-raht have the longer animal-like feet, with only the toes on the ground. Other than that, there are the Ohmes and ohmes-raht, which look like Bosmer or Men save for the golden fur and their tails; the rest are four-legged and look like cats, though I understand they talk in Khajiiti like their two-legged kin. Now… speaking of Elsweyr, I do believe I promised you escort there?"

* * *

He'd been to the border of Hammerfell before, but, gods, Ralof had never realized the southern deserts could be so hot. He tugged on the warm metal of his breastplate, feeling the leather stick to his skin as the hot stones on the road pressed into his boots.

"You're sure you don't want plainclothes, lad?" Brynjolf offered once again, the second time that day. "It's a moment's time to adjust some of mine for you; They won't mess with you whilst you're with myself or Mercy."

"It's either wearing it or hauling it, and I don't have much of a pack." Ralof retorted.

"Lad. Ralof. I'm not explaining to Mercy that you've succumbed to heatstroke. Please take the bloody clothes."

Ralof bristled at the order, but sighed and agreed. Brynjolf had a point, though the Captain hated to acknowledge it. He let the other nord pull him off the path, traded his armor for the light, thin clothing Brynjolf handed him.

He was able to keep going thanks to that. The armor was, surprisingly, not heavy at all even when it was bundled on his back. Of course, Ralof refused to admit such a thing to the Thief walking next to him.

* * *

They were in a small, mobile city of tents and wagons, two nords in a sea of khajiit. Ralof saw firsthand, there were dozens of variations of khajiit; those who walked like men, those who walked on their toes, khajiit who looked like elves and khajiit who looked like khajiit. He felt suddenly like the safe, known world of Skyrim was gone, and he was alone in a land he didn't understand.

"Relax, lad. You're safe as long as you stay close." Brynjolf chided, breaking Ralof from his thoughts. The guildmaster pulled the captain over to a tight knot of khajiit, calling the elder by name.

"Ri-saad! Old friend, how are you? I've brought your profits, as promised!" Bryn called, drawing the old cat's attention. "Have you done as I asked?"

"Yes, Brynjolf. Your fellow Nightingale is recovering well, she has a brew her father has given her to drink every evening. Native remedies have done her much good as well, though thankfully she is cautious. Come, she is over here. I am sure both of you are eager to see her." The gray-faced cat said, motioning them over to a set of tents.

Ralof forgot Bryn and the other khajiit for a moment. He honestly didn't recognize Mercy at first; the snow-colored khajiit's once-long fur was now shorn incredibly short, tinting her gray and white fur a pinkish color from her skin. Her ears were pointier without the thick fur, and she seemed thinner and… sharper, almost. She'd traded her leather armor for a chestband, a vest, and loose silk pants, with no shoes between her feet and the glimmering sand. She had tied her mane back, and was sharpening a blade, carving a motif into the quicksilver.

"Rrr… Ri-saad, this one forgets. It _is_ the full-moon rune that we are to use for these blades, yes? J'miir has taken the others before Mercy could get a good look." she rumbled, not looking up.

"There are nords here to see you, little one. Ri-saad will take care of the rune." The gray-maned caravan leader rumbled. Mercy nodded, looking up.

Ralof's breath caught in his chest for a moment. Her eyes had changed color; they were closer now to the drab color of a winter sea instead of the rich sapphires they had been.

He found himself at a sudden loss of words as she rose and bolted toward them.

"Bryn! Ralof! Mercy did not know you would be here so soon!" She laughed, embracing each of them in turn. Ralof hugged her tightly, turning slightly to whisper to her.

"I feared for you when you disappeared… Stupid though it may be, I was reminded of how the cats my mother kept would go off by themselves when it was time for them to die, and I feared the worst. Forgive me for doubting you." He murmured, keeping his voice as soft as he could. Mercy chuckled at him, then drew away.

"Ri-saad, this one has much to catch up with with her dearest friend, no? Might-"

"Go, Mercy. spend time with Ralof and show him around the bazaar, This one and Brynjolf have business to discuss." the old cat made a "shoo" gesture, turning and drawing Brynjolf away by the shoulder of his shirt.

Mercy turned to Ralof, a humorless smile on her face.

"Ralof, you are not so off-target as you may think. Khajiit do the same when our time is up, but that is not why Mercy left. She was seeking one of the caravans for a remedy to the illness from Solstheim, as Khajiit are the only ones who have the… well. We have resources here that can be found nowhere else."

"Such as?" Ralof pressed.

"Raw Moon-sugar, freshly harvested. Sand-swimmer scales, found nowhere else. Nectar and petals from a local jungle-lily that only blooms when Secunda eclipses with Masser. Local ingredients that cannot be transported because the cold would ruin them, and we have not found a way to preserve the remedy so that it can go where its components cannot. Several Khajiit in Winterhold are looking into preservation methods, that this can be brought to all afflicted regions, and not just Elsweyr." She turned on him with icy-blue eyes. "This one must take the potion at sunrise each morning for a few days more, then Mercy would return to her clan for a short time. After, she will return to you and to Skyrim."

Ralof nodded, noting the emphasis in her words. "How long will it be, do you think?"

The dovahkiin paused, glancing to the side and thinking. "Ten days. Maybe twenty. Mercy promises, no more than a moon-cycle will pass before she follows you and Brynjolf. For now, though… she must remain in Elsweyr and recuperate a bit more. Would that it were not so, but this one endured the rattle-cough for long enough. You will stay safe while I am gone?"

"As safe as I can be." Ralof promised.

* * *

Thirty days passed. 

At midnight, between the thirtieth and the thirty-first, Ralof found signs that the khajiit had returned to her Refuge. In the study, a half-eaten wedge of Eidar cheese and a tankard of water sat beside a map that had not been there an hour before. As he walked past the bath, he heard soft splashing and a feminine entity humming an unknown tune; Ralof smiled, keeping his eyes low as he paused by the closed door.

"Welcome home, Mercy." He called. The humming stopped, and that unnerving laughter echoed past him.

\---

"Rrr… Ralof… this one would speak." Mercy rumbled, her eyes downcast.

Ralof smiled, shaking his head. "Then please, do so, Mercy. I tend to not soften words with you, I would hope you could do the same with me."

"This one thinks it is time we part ways. For a short while, at least."  The khajiit mumbled rapidly, almost too quickly for Ralof to understand. It felt as if his stomach dropped through his shoes; he sighed, rose, and walked over to her.

"Mercy… if that is what you think, then so be it. I'll gather my things, then I'll be heading home. If you need me, you'll find me there." He sighed, almost reaching over to her, - gods, it looked as though saying those words had killed her \- but hesitating and letting his hand fall.

Mercy nodded.

As he passed through the archway into the main corridor, he could've sworn he heard her whisper, in a small voice, "I'll always need you."

Not wanting to cause more stress, he paid it no heed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to reflect a different direction of the story. We'll get back to the other tread after a while.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerdur offers some sisterly advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. I'm gonna put this disclaimer right... about... here:
> 
> **I AM BAD AT WRITING ROMANCE.**
> 
> **I AM GOING BY MY GUT HERE, AND AM UNSURE IF THIS IS THE PROPER MANNER OF DOING THIS.**
> 
> I'm pretty sure people will hate this chapter. Don't worry, I'm not happy with it either.

"Ralof? Brother, you've been sitting there for half an hour!"

Ralof shook his head, snapping out of his reverie and looking over at his sister.

"Are you alright?" Gerdur pressed. Ralof swallowed, shrugging.

"As alright as I can be. I'm not sick, if that's what you're wondering. Just… thinking." He mumbled. In truth, he was playing the moment when Mercy had asked him to leave over in his mind, picking at it, wondering if he should've protested or asked why, or if he should have questioned her when he heard what sounded suspiciously like a confession.

"I could tell that much, you've got smoke pouring out of your ears!" Gerdur laughed, before sitting next to him on the stump. "Ralof, sometimes talking about something can help you understand it. I'm your sister; unless you know something that might bring doom on all of us, I'll keep your secrets."

Ralof chewed on the inside of his cheek, thinking of how to ask the question.

"Has… Shor's bones, but this sounds strange… has a khajiit ever been found to have feelings a human? Any human?"

"You're picking something up from Mercy, then." Gerdur responded, smiling. "I wondered when she would say something."

"She didn't- wait. You knew?" Ralof turned accusing eyes to his sister, who laughed.

"Mara's blessing, brother, I thought you knew! She's had nothing but doe-eyes for you since… well, I'd wager since Helgen!" Gerdur chuckled. She sighed, her mirth dropping away after a moment. "I've heard no stories of Khajiit and Men, particularly not Nords, but in these days anything is possible. People don't see a khajiit when they look at her now, they just see the Dragonborn. So… perhaps, if you wished it, such a relationship might be feasible. I would expect trouble when people learned of it, though."

"Gerdur! I barely know her, and… though she may be a close friend, she is still a khajiit! I…" Ralof trailed off, as Gerdur fixed a withering glare on him.

"'Barely know her'? Pah, Ralof, you've been traveling with the girl for how many months? I'd say you know her almost as well as she knows herself. By Talos, you went to  Elsweyr looking for her, after she disappeared! That's the other side of Tamriel from here!" his sister chided. Ralof swallowed.

"I… Gerdur… I don't know what to think, alright? Two years ago, before she appeared, I thought khajiit were just thieves and liars. Now… Some of them are, yes, but… you know what she said to me? I remember it to this day. She said 'Maybe khajiit are what men force us to be.' It echoes, even now. In Elsweyr, I saw dozens of different kinds of khajiit, and all of them treated me with as much respect as I showed them. I… I can't help but look at her differently, now. Yes, she's… she can be a sneakthief, but then so can any Nord who takes the time to learn how to use a lockpick." Ralof shook his head, sighing. "She's shown me so much. It's… it's too much to take in, without adding another aspect."

"Then perhaps you should just accept that she cares for you as more than a friend, and move on in taking everything else in. I saw the look she was giving you as you walked away, last time you two passed through here. I called her on it, and she admitted to caring a great deal for and about you. However, she feared you would ostracize her if she said anything. The fact that she sent you home to me says that she can't justify tormenting herself anymore." Gerdur shook her head. "Mercy knows that anything beyond friendship between herself and any human is inconceivable. All of us do."

With that, the lumber-woman stood and went back to work, not even giving Ralof a chance to retort (and he had opened his mouth to do so).

But what was his retort to be? "Who said it was inconceivable"?

Ralof sat back a bit, his mind sinking even deeper than it had been. Did he…

"Do I…  _ love _ Mercy?" he whispered, eyes widening.

After a moment, he shook his head. It wasn't love… not yet. He knew much  about the Dragonborn, but he did not  know her. Until he could claim that much, there was no way to claim that had any affections for her that were more than friendly.

\---

It was good work, helping haul logs from the woods to the mill. Hard work always cleared his mind. He didn't even notice the time passing, until he realized winter was almost over.

"She's likely been alone all this time… and I didn't even think." He commented one evening; Orgnar shrugged, not responding as he polished a tankard from the previous day.

"Shor's bones… what kind of friend does that make me, then? Leaving her alone all winter?"

"It makes you the kind of friend who gives space when asked to. If you ask me, that's the best kind of friend. She'll have stayed busy. She's the dragonborn; she'll be fine. If you're so worried about her, go check on her once the pass is clear." The innkeeper rumbled. Ralof nodded, downing another mouthful of mead.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Issues need resolving, both in Markarth and in the Refuge.  
> Markarth, however, takes precedence, because lives are at risk.

Ralof found the khajiit pacing the study of the Refuge. She was nervous, he could tell; something weighed on her mind and she was fighting with it. So, he sat patiently by the fire, waiting for her to speak first.

 

"Khajiit is about to get herself into trouble again, Ralof." Mercy rumbled, collapsing into the other chair. "Khajiit is about to kick a hornet's nest, and there is no river or lake to hide in."

"Oh? And what hornet's nest are you kicking? I wasn't aware that there were any left undisturbed in Skyrim." Ralof chuckled gently, hoping to make her smile.

"There are Forsworn in Markarth. One of them killed a merchant before Mercy's very eyes, and she… I… have let the problem go undealt with for too long." She sighed in response. Ralof felt his stomach drop as it had not in months.

"Mercy… why not let the Jarl and the guards deal with it? It sounds more like something they'd take care of, not something for you to worry about." He questioned; Mercy laughed outright, the sound jarring both of them and echoing through the stone halls.

"They will do nothing. Mercy tried to appeal to them, and they laugh and tell her to mind her own business! These… these cultist monsters terrorize the people, and no-one will do anything about it!" She gestured helplessly and shook her head, before resting it in her hands. "This whole mess stinks of conspiracy, of rotten fish and soured milk. I don't like it, but… if no one else will protect the people, who am I to stand by and do nothing?" She looked up, pale blue eyes searching for answers in his face.

Ralof sighed. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

Those eyes flashed once with alarm, then hardened into ice.

"No. I don't want you getting mixed up in this; they kill nords on sight, and…" She trailed off, but the words she left unsaid still rang clear.  I don't want to lose you .

Ralof nodded.

"Seems we still need to talk… about things. We'll do that when you get back, yes?"

He didn't catch the mannerism until it was said; biting his tongue, he almost corrected himself-

Until Mercy started laughing . It wasn't the unnerving chuff she gave as retort, it was a sound of genuine mirth.

"Well. You know about the Khajiit, and now you are beginning to talk like the Khajiit. Are you sure you are not merely disguised Khajiit, Ralof?" The dovahkiin teased.

"Perhaps I'm just sounding like those I respect and trust." He responded calmly, watching for her response.

The laughter ceased instantly; her eyes spoke of shock.

"I…. be cautious of those words. Trust is not something to-"

Ralof reached over and took her hand, stopping her.

"Mercy, if I didn't trust you even a little bit, I wouldn't have asked you to join the Stormcloaks… gods, was it really two years ago? I wouldn't have agreed to come with you on your travels. I wouldn't be considering asking to stay here with you instead of in the inn in Riverwood." Ralof sighed, shaking his head. "I don't know what it is you'll be getting into in Markarth. I don't like that it involves Forsworn; they're ruthless murderers. However, I've seen you fight, and when need be you can be just as ruthless as any entity, mortal or otherwise. I trust your judgement; you'll do what you think is right, and you won't take more lives than you have to." He sat back in the chair, focusing on the fire.

"Go. Do what you deem necessary. I'll wait for you here, and we'll figure things out after you return, alright?"

He felt a gentle, padded hand touch his shoulder, and heard a quiet purr.

"Don't seclude yourself here. Too much of solitude is not good for Men, Mer, Khajiit, or Argonian. In the tower, there is a door to every major city. Use them, and be wary of the banners you do not know." She whispered.

Then, like a shadow in candlelight, she was gone.

\---

A week without word found Ralof in the Ragged Flagon, chatting with Delven and dividing a wheel of cheese between them. He had, in his dealings with Mercy and in his own travels, found the Thieves' Guild's tavern to be a good place for cheap mead and decent company. Thanks to Mercy's own conniving, he had nothing to fear of losing his coinpurse; he'd even formed a sort of friendship with Delven and Vekel.

 

The thielfling that came in yelping "The guildmaster has been captured!" definitely disturbed the peace of the tavern. Vex quickly clapped a hand over the adolescent's mouth, shushing him (her?) with a sharp word. Ralof watched impassively as Brynjolf appeared from the shadows and confronted the teen, questioning the source of the information and inspecting the lad carefully.

"Pah… never thought Mercy one to get herself caught." Delven scoffed.

"She did, though! The guards in Markarth set her up!" The thiefling squeaked, before being shushed again by Vex.

"Kicking a hornets' nest, Mercy? Or throwing yourself in among a pack of wolves?" Ralof murmured, staring off and feeling torn between worry and confidence; Bryn glanced at him.

"You knew about this?" The redhead pressed.

"There were Forsworn in Markarth. Mercy said no-one was taking care of the problem, so she had decided to do so. she said she'd likely be kicking a hornet's nest because the whole mess reeked of conspiracy." Ralof sighed. "She knows what she's doing. She'll be fine."

"Or she'll be worked to death in the silver mines. They starve the workers. We need to go and get her out. Now." Brynjolf chastised. Ralof glared at him.

"I have faith in her; but, since you clearly don't we'll give her a week.  _ Then _ _,_ we can go and get her out if she has not freed herself." He stated calmly; then, he got up and left.

\---

Ralof woke up three nights after, hearing the clacking of the elevator as it came down. Serana was at Fort Dawnguard; other individuals who followed or had accompanied Mercy were elsewhere in their respective homes.

He lay still, listening as soft footsteps padded toward the bunk-room. They paused outside the door; he wondered if she was about to enter, until he heard a door open and the sound of falling water grow louder.

Sighing, Ralof let himself drift back into sleep for a time.

 

Mercy woke him a bit later with a touch on his shoulder; her fur was still damp, and he heard her purring insistently to herself, as if to drive away some unrelenting nightmare.

"What's wrong?" He asked, sitting up. She didn't respond, instead sitting next to him and leaning into him.

He recognized the plea for comfort; Frodnar had done the same when he was small, and when Gerdur had been away overnight during a storm. Sighing, Ralof pulled the khajiit close, rubbing her back and humming quietly.

"Khajiit is very sorry for what she has done. Khajiit had little choice and little chance to do anything other than what she has done." Mercy murmured after a while. "Khajiit was thrown into the silver mines, and… the only way out that she saw was to double-cross the Forsworn leader. Khajiit has killed before; she does not regret killing him, but… if khajiit is to take a side, she would prefer to take one and stay there."

Ralof didn't say anything; what was he to say? If he were to say "I forgive you", Mercy would take that as confirmation that she had done something wrong. However, if he told her she'd done nothing wrong she would call him a liar and retreat in on herself for gods-knew-how-long. So, he stayed silent, holding her close until she stopped shaking.

 

Morning found him curled around a fluffy ball of fur; Ralof woke up to find Mercy still clinging to him, her expression tight with worry even in sleep. Sighing, he weighed the idea of chastising her.

Instead, he carefully extricated himself from her grip and went to relieve himself, bathe, and eat. When he returned about an hour later, she was still asleep. He shook his head, gently scooping her into his arms and walking out into the hall and over to where her bedroom was (thankfully the grate was already open). He entered the room softly, gently laying her out on the plush bed she'd laid claim to once she'd settled into the Refuge.

That done, he removed himself to the upper tower, taking in the lingering chilly bite of the winter air and letting the early morning sun clear the cobwebs from his mind. He saw three dragons flying near the mountainous upper portions of the refuge, but felt no fear.

 

Mercy joined him after about an hour, bringing hot food and blankets with her.

"Is beautiful, no? I came up here many times during the winter, watching Odahviing and the others fly and dance with the auroras. If you listen close you can almost hear the Graybeards' shouts, and you can see them rippling the clouds." She murmured, as he took a mouthful of the steaming food.

Ralof swallowed, and nodded. "Aye… it's a fair wondrous sight. I can only imagine it was more so during the winter, when the snows piled high and the sky glittered at night."

"That it was… Perhaps come next winter I can show you."  The khajiit rumbled, lowering her head.

"I'd like that." Ralof nodded. He paused for a moment, then looked over at her. "Did… did you resolve what was troubling you before? I didn't want to pry, but I was worried about you."

Mercy thought a moment, then shrugged. "It is as resolved as I can make it. It is not completely resolved, but it is enough." She side-eyed him. "You said we had things to discuss, no? Better to discuss them now when we are both calm and collected, I think. We two have hot tempers that could match a dragon."

Ralof chortled, nodding. "You're right. Better to get it out of the way… though, perhaps we should go inside? I do like it up here, but…"

Mercy nodded, rising from her seat. "It's too cold out here for this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double-crossing and betrayal don't sit well with Mercy, thus her reaction.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A certain Daedric prince of debauchery decides to meddle in his champion's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was torn on whether to add this chapter or not... still torn, actually.

A year passed quickly; various individuals passed through the Refuge, some coming and staying for a month as they rebuilt a home destroyed by some catastrophe, others staying a day or two to rest before the next leg of a journey. Some took refuge in the bunk-room, pairs falling gratefully into the double-beds while others argued over the singles. Ralof, as the sole long-term resident, was left alone; his bed remained his own without a single complaint from any of the passers-by.

He was honestly amazed by how many different people Mercy had connected with. Several housecarls (particularly a black-haired woman named Lydia) would check in regularly, coming down from the portal tower to speak with Mercy. Lydia was generally there to inquire about Ralof and Mercy's health, acting almost like a mother hen and chastising them when she thought they weren't sleeping enough, or eating enough to keep going.

"Mara's mercy, you'd think you two can run on sunlight alone, the way you act! I know how Mercy is, always going until she collapses; you're no better!" She ranted, driving Ralof into a corner and forcing a bowl of food into his hands.

"Eat all of that. I have a cat to herd." The housecarl ordered; Ralof obeyed, thoroughly intimidated by the imposing woman.

He heard Mercy behind him; his bunk tended to shift with any weight that was applied to it.

"This one forgot how much of a terror Lydia can be. Perhaps Mercy should take her to Lakeview and give her stewardship; she'd have her hands full then, and would leave us alone." The khajiit whispered. Ralof snorted, trying not to choke on his food.

"Perhaps you should, at that. I can't get a moment's peace when she's here. I appreciate she's trying to look after us, but she can be a bit much with as often as she's here." He muttered, feeling the likely-invisible khajiit pressing into his back.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks later, Lydia was happily settled in Lakeview and looking after the caravans that paused there for a day of respite. Mercy was preparing for a fine meal to celebrate the victory over the Empire, and tasked Ralof with searching through her collection of alcohols and finding one that suited his fancy.

The argonian bloodwine did exactly that; he grabbed a bottle, not noticing it was slightly different from its companions.

 

"Odd… I don't remember acquiring this one; perhaps it was an aged one that has since been forgotten?" Mercy hummed, inspecting the bottle. "It is the same color as it should be, but it smells stronger, like it has been spiced. Are you sure this is the one you want?"

Ralof nodded. "That's the one. It just… seemed right, I suppose."

"So be it, then." Mercy thrummed, pouring a stein for each of them. She handed one mug to him, then held hers up. "To the kingdom of Skyrim!"

Ralof repeated the salute, clinking his stein with the Khajiit's. He drank deeply, and the world faded in a rosy glow.

 

 

* * *

 

Ralof woke, bleary-eyed and feeling like a mammoth had done a jig on top of him, in a bed that was far too soft to be his. His skin tingled, to the point that he could only feel that there was a presence next to him; he didn't know what (or who) it was, merely that it was there.

He could also tell he had pressing business to take care of. Sluggishly, he freed himself from his bedmate, then rose and pulled on his trousers - _funny, I don't remember sleeping nude…_ -, before stumbling over to where a diagonal grate barred his path. He blinked at the obstacle, then unthinkingly pressed a button to his right. The metal bars slid away back into their holes, leaving his path open to rush away.

 

He stumbled back, relieved and somewhat more awake, then froze at the portal he'd exited from.

"Oh, ye gods…" He murmured, blinking at Mercy's open door. His heart began pounding in his ears; he remembered their feasting, the drinks they'd shared and… and a garbled mess of sensations he couldn't quite process. What little he understood…

"What have I done…" He whispered, shaking his head. Turning, he paced up to the study, collapsing into one of the chairs by the fire and resting his head in his hands.

 

About an hour later, he heard soft footsteps and felt a presence next to him.

"Mercy… I'm-" He began, looking up; she shook her head, pulling her robe closer about herself.

"Shh. Wasn't your fault. I remember the scent from that alcohol, now; Sanguine has pulled a tasteless trick on us." She murmured.

"Sanguine? How-" He stopped, and shook his head. "D-do I want to know?" Mercy gave him a knowing look.

"Last time he merely sent me all across Skyrim, instead of letting me stay home… I woke up in the temple to Dibella, and apparently I had defiled the statuary, stolen someone's goat in Rorikstead, and proposed marriage to a hagraven in the Eastmarch with a ring from Whiterun." She chuckled wickedly.

Ralof managed a half-smile, but the shock was still making him feel sick (or, perhaps that was the hangover). "So… what do we do now?" He asked hesitantly.

"The same thing we've been doing. We continue on from where we were before this happened." Mercy shrugged.

Ralof stared at her. "You mean… act like this didn't happen? But Mercy-"

"I never said that. I said we continued from where we were. That doesn't mean we forget this event…" She mumbled something that sounded like 'I doubt I ever could', and shook her head. "But we can't let it destroy us. Right?" She looked him in the eye, and he nodded.

"But… what if I… what if you were…" he faltered, unsure of what wording to use. Mercy gave him a knowing smile.

"Khajiit… are not pulled by the moons as others are. We have one season, one period of time each year when we are drawn together for the sake of having cubs. Any other time, coupling is merely a means for bonding and pleasure. Besides… I'm not even sure men and khajiit _can_ reproduce." She sighed, pulling in on herself and curling into the chair. "You have nothing to fear of that; I promise."

\---

Mercy was far more cautious around him, after that; Raolf noticed that certain doors simply disappeared from the tower, and she was gone far more often than before.

_She's avoiding me._

The thought soured his stomach. For all her talk of continuing from where they had been, their escapade had scared her just as it scared him.

He decided to ask after that idea, when next he saw her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DO NOT WRITE SMUT.  
> I just hint at it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khajiit are known to be liars; but, when one's friend lies about something serious, it still hurts.  
> Ralof gets to find something important out, then we check on Mercy.

Unfortunately for Ralof, Mercy appeared to decide that midwinter was the perfect time to retreat to Elsweyr (again). He heard tell from Falkreath that she had joined a small caravan on the moonpath.

Torn between being angry and confused (leaving him in a gruff, tired-bear state), he took to drinking the nights away in the Ragged Flagon. Delvin managed to pry what had happened out of him, leaving the tired Stormcloak (he had been sleeping in his own bed, but it didn't feel right anymore) grumpier as the old man conversed with his fellows.

"She told you the Khajiit only have one season a year? Oh, dear…" Tonilia groaned.

"She lied to me again, didn't she." Ralof growled, pinching the bridge of his nose. He and Mercy were due for a row, it seemed.

"Yes. Some khajiit _do_ have one season, but that's limited to the larger four-legged ones. Two-legger khajiit are mostly like the rest of us, with -well… with a pull once every full moon. I think it's Secunda for them…"

"Tonilia, I worked with Mercy for a month straight. Not once did her reaction to anything change, not in the slightest. Even Vex and Sapphire react differently." Brynjolf interjected. "And have you ever seen any evidence that she has a pull at all?"

"You lot are as thick as posts, you realize that?" Sapphire groused loudly, startling all of them. "Mercy's barren. I've seen the scar. She doesn't like to talk about it because family means so much to her. Damn cat keeps coming up with excuses so she doesn't have to out and say it. "

Ralof froze, the anger dissipating.

_**Barren?!** _

Guilt shot him like an arrow, but he chased it off with a quaff of mead. He said nothing more as the others awkwardly returned to their private conversations. 

* * *

Mercy crept along the edge of the waterway, her feet and tail still damp from wading through the waters of the Tenmar hideout. An injured Suthay had found them, his shield covered in Thalmor arrows; the thought of the elves being so close bothered her a great deal, and as such she had decided to deal with the threat before it became too big to deal with.

She didn't count on a fort of sixty Thalmor on the borders of her territory.

The first ten were easy enough to deal with, she picked them off one by one per her usual method, and the trees provided her with extra elevation. Then came the hard part: Those inside the wooden walls.

Five fell before the alarm rang. Ten more fell to the bite of her blades before she had to retreat.

Twenty chased her through the jungles, five of which paid for their pursuit with their lives. One elf  managed to strike her shoulder with an arrow before she escaped.

One arrow's worth of poison was all it took; She was sick three times on her way back to the Tenmar, and spent a week on her back after.

 

When she returned to the fort two weeks later, all forty-five residents fell in short order, including the captain that had shot her. She then burned the palisades, and with the aide of the others tore the fort down brick by brick.

The Thalmor did not enter her territory again.

\---

Mercy was, for the most part, content. She was aiding her people; if she were lucky, she might be able to help drive the Thalmor out of the jungles and back across the desert.

But she could still feel the lack of warmth at her back; she had not been so intoxicated for their little celebration as Ralof had. Because of prior experience, she knew not to drink too deeply or too quickly of anything except water.

She remembered the jolt of fear that she had felt upon waking up, first (foolishly) that something might actually come about from their coupling, then that Ralof would scorn her. Unconsciously, Mercy's fingers touched the small, circular scar below her navel; she remembered vividly the pain as the mage's spell had burned through her, all those years ago.

She knew Ralof would be angry that she'd lied. She knew he would be hurt that she'd kept such a secret from him. She didn't know why she even bothered lying about her ability to have cubs anymore. It didn't matter, and she didn't mind, much. She'd started feeling the tug only three moons before the incident, and the aftershocks had been more unpleasant than digging through mud and wet clay.

Yes, her parents' lines would die when she died. But, she had her own four children, and she loved them with all her heart, and with all her might.

All they need is a proper father.

She shook her head, dismissing the voice. They had the whirlwind that was Lydia to look after them when Mercy wasn't home, and Ralof cared for them…

Her heart ached. Lucia, Saria, and Alesan had immediately taken to her Shield-brother as if he were their uncle or father, and he'd taken to treating them as he did his sister's child. Ma'isha had been shy at first, but she was shy around anyone who wasn't Khajiit. She even said (once Ralof had left) that she liked the Stormcloak.

"Enough. You trouble yourself too much with this." Mercy scolded herself, rising from her bedroll.

She would return to Skyrim the next week, once she was sure that she was no longer needed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm fighting with Writers' Block for both this and Scapegoat; less so with this fic, because I've been playing oodles of Skyrim lately.  
> I can't really play much of Twilight Princess.  
> I'll figure something out. School will (hopefully) ease up eventually, and my job is seasonal.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercy is _NOT_ pleased to come home and find her best friend drunk.  
>  Even less so (and a bit more upset) to find him very ill beneath the drunkenness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gonna be seeing a lot of Mercy's point of view, at least for this chapter...  
> It made sense in my head since our normal story-teller is either drunk or sick at this point.

Returning home was… interesting. Ralof had apparently taken up semi-permanent residence at the Ragged Flagon (she was worried he was becoming a drunkard, but Vekel assured her that he drank more water than mead), Saria was sick (which demanded immediate attention despite Lydia's protesting that she had it under control), and Alesan was showing talents for magic (Which Mercy would pursue once Saria was well again).

Overall, her life went from being a calm burble to a constant rush, from making SURE that Saria wasn't gonna die ("No, dear, they aren't trying to poison you."), to making sure Alesan didn't set the chicken coop on fire ("I KNEW they were wrong about the emotional outbursts!") to warding off Bryn's unhappy grumping about Ralof drinking Delvin under the table AGAIN ("Vekel, you promised me he wasn't becoming a drunk!"). Mercy was rushing to keep up, and loving every moment.

\---

Ralof groaned, resting his head on the time-worn wood as a fresh hangover replaced the one he'd had the previous day. He knew he was making a fool of himself, but drink made every other problem go away for a time (and made the odd ache in his bones fade away).

Until Mercy returned.

"Yes, yes, this one will take care of it now, Bryn. Keep your beard on and put that bloody dagger away."

He heard the familiar voice through a haze, and didn't register its owner until she hauled him to his feet.

"C'mon, Captain. This one thinks you're overdue for a sparring session." Mercy thrummed in his ear, disregarding his groan of protest as she hauled him back through the Honeyside passage.

"Mershy, no 'fense-"

"Ralof, the fact that you've allowed yourself to be this far gone is offensive in and of itself. Mercy knows she lied to you, but that's no excuse." Mercy cut off his slurred grousing, half-dragging him to the stairs.

"Affer Sapphire 'splained, I undershtood a bi' bedder-"

"Then please explain it to me, because it's certainly not shame or any nonsense like that. I'm pretty sure it's just wanting to avoid the pity." Mercy cut him off sharply, a hint of a growl in her voice.

Right, then. Leave the sensitive topics alone.

"You di'n' 'splain where we're goin'."

Mercy chuckled at him, "I've been fighting nothing but elves since I left; besides, I've a bone to pick you."

 

'A bone to pick' apparently meant bashing him about the head with a dulled axe. He'd never fought drunk, and quickly understood why. The seventh time she knocked him upside the head and onto his back, he gave up. Threw down his weapon (a dulled battleaxe), dropped to his knees, and made the "go ahead and kill me" gesture.

"Lash, I'm too tired to shtand a chance. You win." He slurred, glaring at her. She got an odd look on her face, one of confusion and perhaps frustration; she walked past him (clonking him on the back of the head with the butt of her axe as she passed).

"Firstly, stop calling me 'lass'. Your name is not Brynjolf, and you are not co-leader of the Guild. Second, I've been worse off than you are and fighting like I am now. Third, you're a Nord. You don't get to surrender." She rumbled. But, even so, she put the axe away and took his weapon with her, leaving him in the room ("Wait, where am I?") alone.

He heard stairs. The wooden, creaky kind of stairs. Rising, he stumbled over to where he'd heard them, and looked up.

"Mershy, wha-"

"There's a bed there behind you. Go collapse in it and sleep off the alcohol. Iona's out and about for the week." Mercy shut him off, stalking away from the steps.

Iona. That meant they were still in Riften. Blinking, and keeping this new knowledge (he'd sworn they'd gone through the doors into the Refuge), he stumbled over to the Housecarl's bed and collapsed into it.

\---

He woke up with a headache that only Molag Bal could've conceived. Every part of him was sore, even opening his eyes hurt too much to put in the effort. There was a pounding spot on the base of his skull (directly where Mercy had caught him, actually), and his various bruises felt like they had little imps drumming on them with clubs.

"This one hopes you've learned your lesson, hm?"

Even the gentle whisper from next to the cot hurt. Ralof swallowed (eurgh, cotton mouth; it felt as if his lungs were on fire as well), and nodded. Or, tried to. A roar of pain inside his head stopped him after the slight movement.

He felt what seemed like sandpaper (it was the pads on Mercy's hand, he knew that much) slide across the back of his neck, and heard a soft, worried sound.

"Kynarthi bless, you've been nursing a fever along with a hangover, haven't you?" She murmured; Ralof managed to open his eyes at that, and noticed the world was all blurry.

"Wh-what?" He hissed softly, fighting to keep his lungs from seizing; who knew internal fire could  freeze ?

"And you're wheezing. Gods bless… I'd better get you a healer. Stay here, and by Mara's mercy, stay awake." The worry in the Khajiit's tone caught his attention. He nodded again, ignoring the ache it caused, as she stood and rushed back up the stairs.

She returned what felt like both an instant and an eternity later. Ralof was watching what appeared to be a sweet roll float around a miniature dragon that hung from the ceiling, when he picked up on their conversation coming down the stairs.

"-didn't realize… was away… n't have been so rough with him-"

"-couldn't have… by rats? … no way to tell…"

It was a soft conversation; he felt suddenly lucid, though his body wasn't responding at all to what he wanted of it. His breath was even shorter, and… gods, had he fallen  asleep ?

"Has he been to Solstheim recently?"

That was a priest, surely. They'd moved to the head of the stairs.

"No… it's been over a year when he and this one were there."

Mercy, of course.

"Any contact with ash-hoppers?" The priest asked.

"Not that this one knows of."

Not that he'd known of, either.

"Well, let's take a look either way, make sure of what it is or what it isn't."

The priest (a Vigilant of Stendarr, no less!) descended into view, his blue robes shuffling softly. Mercy was behind, a look on her face that would put any concerned mother to shame. Ralof watched, unable to move, as they walked into the small room.

"He's awake, at least… thank the gods for small blessings. Ralof, can you hear me?" The priest knelt by the bed, looking Ralof in the eye.

With all his will, he forced a wheeze out of his chest and shaped it into a 'yes'.

"Good, you can comprehend and understand, at least, I'd say it was brain-rot otherwise… The bone break fever's causing the wheezing, no doubt. Can you move, lad?"

Ralof managed, somehow, another wheeze, this one as a no.

"Rockjoint. That's fairly common this time of year. Might also be the droops, though if he's had no contact with hoppers I don't see how." The Vigilant sighed, shaking his head. "I can't say for certain it's one or the other, for all I know it might be both. But, I've something that should treat it quickly either way." The priest stood, walking back out into the main area of the basement.

"You'll need to keep some hanging moss and other items on hand... specifically ..... (he couldn't hear this bit, but he thought he heard a soft snarl from Mercy). Grind them together and mix them with enough alcohol, water, and honey to kill the taste, I'd recommend heating it all over a fire. I've a small mix with me, should take the worst of the pain away."

Ralof's vision blurred again, morphing the sweet roll into a falmer with its feet against the ceiling; he tasted something spicy and sweet against his lips, felt the suffocating need to cough as it rolled down his throat. He closed his eyes, fighting the sensation.

After what felt like a few moments, the sharp ache in his bones eased a bit; he actually managed to clench his hands into fists without screaming. A single cough from deep in his body tore out of him, taking what breath he had with it as he writhed in pain.

"Shh… easy, Ralof. Easy… you're ok." A honey-like Khajiiti accent rolled around him, as sweet air flowed back into his chest. He was floating in it, and his head was full of fog. Except for the cool cloth on his forehead. That kept the fuzziness out of that spot.

"It's been twelve hours; he said to give you another dose when you woke. Kynarthi's blessings, I thought… well. It doesn't matter what I thought. You're going to be ok."

You're going to be ok.

Well, at least Mercy cared…

Ralof frowned at himself for that, internally at least.  Of course Mercy cares. A warm spot settled in his chest, and, though he cared not to name it, it brought him some comfort.

* * *

 

Mercy cursed to herself, grinding the potion's ingredients together as Ralof slept. She should've known, should've seen the pallor that was now so evident in his face.

The whimpering hurt most; his breathing had eased greatly and his fever was less than it had been, but the rockjoint wasn't letting go quite as easily, and it clearly hurt when he moved or shifted. She still saw him kneeling, a tired smile on his face as he surrendered.

It hurt like nothing she'd ever felt before.

Did she love him?

"If he were lost, my victory over Alduin would be for naught in my eyes. If that is love, then…"  Then I suppose I must love him. Much good it does any of us… She scoffed, shaking her head. Tilting her ears back, she picked up on the start of another of his deep, rattling coughs, the kind that would wake a dead man from his slumber.

Sighing, the motherly khajiit took the goo she'd ground out and poured it into a cup filled with heated honey-water, then poured in a sip of rum (the good kind; she'd brought an entire rack's-worth of the fine liquor, intending to introduce it to Vekel) into the mixture. She strode over to Ralof's cot (she'd moved it out to where it was next to the fire), sat next to him, and waited for the coughing to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID DO MY RESEARCH.  
> [Bone-Break Fever](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Bone_Break_Fever) saps the player's Stamina in-game for 25 points.  
> Fever of any kind (in my experience) leads to the afflicted being lethargic and sleepy (like sleep-for-12-hours-and-only-get-up-to-pee sleepy, followed by going back to bed), and I for one never really eat much when I'm feverish.  
> Fevers _can_ also cause hallucinations, though I think that was more Ralof trying to be awake even in his dreams.  
> [Rockjoint](http://elderscrolls.wikia.com/wiki/Rockjoint) makes it so the player is 25% less effective with melee weapons. Reading the description on the wiki makes me think of the really stiff, achy joints I would get whenever I got really really sick.  
>  Those two plus a disease neither Skyrim nor I have no name for = one hella nasty flu.
> 
> Also: The concoction that the Vigilant prescribed = Skyrim's version of a [hot toddie](http://www.food.com/recipe/dr-pats-hot-toddy-cold-remedy-234344)


	17. Chapter 17

It took a month in total for the sickness to pass; Ralof was astounded, at the end, that Mercy hadn't gotten sick as well. She'd just smiled the first time he asked; once he'd convinced her he was able to move around better (he'd heard how painful rockjoint could be, but never had he thought it would be as crippling as it was!), she'd shook her head.

"Lucia had something similar; I got home and spent about two weeks getting her fever down and fighting to not get sick myself, before heading for the Mages' College. Alesan's shown a talent for the destructive school." She commented quietly, handing him a stein.

Ralof wrinkled his nose; the brew was good enough, but it was far too sweet and the curatives in it made it taste incredibly odd.

"I found out where you got most of the sickness, by the by. Vekel was using ash hopper jelly and some other pleasant things to make his stores stretch further." The khajiit commented offhandedly, picking up a cheese wheel and a waterskin. "I've had words with him; he's replenishing his stores far more frequently now, though he's having to rely more on Delvin and the Guild."

Ralof choked on his draught. Coughing lightly, he stared at her.

"Is that where I got the…" He shook his head.

"By his own vow, he meant no harm; he was doing his best to get by and the last while his margins have been extraordinarily slim. The Ratway's falling apart, and no-one cares to repair it except those who're there." She chided gently.

"And those who're there don't have the resources-" He started.

Mercy cut in with "Or can't let on that they have those resources"

"Or can't let on that they have the resources to repair it." He sighed, shaking his head. "Why doesn't the Guild shore it up? Surely there's someone who knows a bit of masonry."

"Nah… smiths, fletchers, sure. Masons? No. Masons can get by in honest jobs. Most of them end up as farmers. Some we work with, others we work against. None really want to enter Riften if they can help it. Not tied to various events as they are. I'm trying to work out a deal with Ri'saad, but negotiation takes time I haven't had."

Ralof started to speak up, started to say she'd had all the time since he'd been sick.

"If you're about to say I had the time you were recovering, I'm going to hurt you. If your sister were half as sick as you've been, you'd be completely devoted to making sure she got well again." Mercy growled; Ralof swallowed, conceding.

"Well… I'm better now. Go. Go on, I'll manage just fine." He shooed at her, and she glared.

"You've another week of tending to deal with. Unless you'd… hmm…"

Her wicked smile unnerved him.

\---

"Mama, Uncle Ralof said he was going to skin you next time he saw you! He wouldn't actually do it, would he?" Lucia asked, eyes bright with fear. Mercy chuckled, lightly petting the child's head.

"No, sweetheart. I just handed him off to Lydia, and… well, she isn't quite as gentle and understanding as I am when younglings or sick ones think they're completely well again." She crooned, carefully braiding her oldest daughter's hair. Lucia giggled, as they watched the subject of their conversation hide in the stable below.

Mercy was waiting for Ri'saad to return from his trip back to Elsweyr, and as all caravans stopped by Lakeview Manor for a night of rest she had better chance to catch the old khajiit in a decent mood. She also waited for news of her sire, as last she'd heard he'd vanished into Blackmarsh several months prior. Something about helping with "The Hatching", whatever that was.

Mercy knew her father maintained a safehaven for injured Argonians and Khajiit, knew that often he'd gone out of his way to show kindness to lost souls. He was why she'd taken the name, "Mercy". It was harder to live up to, particularly in her current standing, but it fit more closely to who she was. It settled better on her shoulders than the name of a long-dead ancestor.

"Mama! Rrrla! Lydi! The caravan is coming, Ri'saad brought someone new!" Ma'isha called joyfully, dashing up into the house. Mercy smiled; the young cub still had trouble with names, but she did rather well. The motherly khajiit quickly tied Lucia's braid with a bow, then stood and went to round up the rest of her little family.

 

Her heart nearly stopped when she saw Ri'saad's troupe approaching from the western road.

"F….father?" Mercy whispered, quickly putting Saria down before her arms could give out.

"Mama? What's wrong?" The young girl asked, and Mercy felt tears welling.

"I merely hoped for news; apparently you all get to meet your adopted grandsire tonight." Mercy replied, watching as the massive tiger-cat slowly wound up the path towards their home with the other khajiit. Shaking her head, the Dovahkiin turned to her steward.

"Lydia, quickly. Find me the best ale we have, and find those wheels of eidar. And if you would, get the fish cooking. Let us give our guests a good meal this evening."

Lydia nodded, rushing back to the house. Mercy felt Ralof's confused stare, but shook her head.

"Ri'saad! This one hopes you've brought hungry mouths, for we've good food and warm beds for you and your caravan, if you would but grace us with your company this evening!" She called, drawing the gray cat's attention. Ri'saad responded with a laugh, hefting his pack.

"We would not dream of turning down your hospitality, child." The caravan-leader rumbled, as they hiked up the last hill. Mercy nodded, avoiding her sire's gaze for the time being as she led the way up to her door.

"Ralof, if you would, could you get some mead from the store-rooms? There is some last minute cooking I need to do." She asked; she saw him nod out of the corner of her eye as she darted to her bedroom. Crouching, she drew a small silken pouch from within a secret compartment of her end table. She turned, tucking it under her belt as she darted back out and over to the kitchen.

"Kitten, when you've a few moments this one would speak to you."

Gods, she'd forgotten how that deep rumble had affected her; she suddenly felt both terrified and irrefutably safe, but… she had not spoken to her father in over a decade; she'd sent letters when the opportunity had presented itself, but the further north she'd come the scarcer those opportunities had been.

Blinking, she found herself stirring a large amount of fondu while she'd been lost to thought. She pulled the silk purse from her belt, pulling out three pinches of Moon Sugar and stirring them into the bubbling cheese. Another pinch went on her tongue, and the rest went back into her belt. She waited half a minute, before carefully heaving the heavy pot off of the fire and carrying it back out to her guests. Lydia served the fish a moment later, along with a nordic mead.

 

Mercy trembled slightly as she approached the side-table where her father sat. Ra'Saro was still as tall as she remembered (he was head and shoulders taller than Ri'saad), and though the gray on his muzzle showed his age, his acidic green eyes were still sharp as knives.

Listening to the chatter become cheerful, Mercy cautiously sat down across the side-table from him. Those eyes watched mirthfully as her four children went to various members of the caravan, displaying accomplishments and demanding stories.

"Are they here permanently, or do you merely provide them temporary shelter?" Ra'Saro asked softly, eyes not leaving the children.

"They are mine; they had no place to go and no family to return to. So, with what authority I could muster I took them in."

Her father nodded at that response. "You are happy, then?"

Mercy sighed, smiling as Lucia and Saria started to sing, and as Alesan showed Ri'saad what he'd managed to master of his magic.

"I am content." She responded softly, eyes landing on the blond Nord who was laughing with her children and guests. "I don't know if that counts as happiness, but it is what I've got and it is enough."

"You love him?" her father's voice was soft, meant only for her to hear.

"Is it really so obvious?" She quipped in reply. A soft chuckle answered her.

"You remind me of your mother; I caught many of her gazes, and you matched them just now." Ra'Saro grinned at her, his eyes taking a wicked gleam. Mercy felt her face flush beneath her fur, and subconsciously hissed at the old cat.

Ra'Saro laughed outright, startling several of the other Khajiit and Ralof as well.

"Well, now, Khajiit wishes he'd known he had grandchildren, I'd have come sooner! May I meet them, Myaka?"

The name hit her like a stone, but she nodded and beckoned her children over. Saria came and leaned shyly against Mercy's arm, while Alesan and Lucia approached the old khajiit eagerly. Ma'isha hung back, brilliant blue eyes observing them both.

"Well, now, look at these two brave souls facing a big old tiger. I am Ra'saro, who are you?" He extended his left hand to the two children; Lucia took two of the massive fingers in one hand, smiling.

"I'm Lucia. Mama took me in from Whiterun three years ago." the brunette smiled, bright gray eyes shining. Alesan stepped forward next.

"I'm Alesan; Mama found me up north in Dawnstar, and brought me back. Saria's next to her, she's kinda shy, she came from Windhelm; Ma'isha is there behind, she's wary about new people, we aren't sure where she's from."

 

* * *

 

Ralof eyed the graying khajiit from his seat across the room; Ra'saro was laughing with the children, learning their names and telling them stories. The old tiger-cat was absolutely massive, the tips of his ears had scraped the doorframe as he stooped to come in!

Brilliant green eyes froze him in place, and the old cat leaned to Mercy and asked something. She nodded, and beckoned Ralof over. The two stood, and Mercy led the way outside.

 

"Myaka tells me you have been very crucial to her continued survival here. She writes of you often, when she sends letters." The old cat extended his massive hand. "I go by Ra'saro to all but family, but… one whom my daughter trusts so explicitly can know at least a fragment of myself. I am Sorrowmane."

"I'm Ralof; I am honored to meet you, ser." Ralof shook the massive hand, feeling somewhat intimidated.

"I would speak to you in private; Mya, Go. Tend to your children and your guests."

Mercy visibly bristled, but nodded and ducked away.

Sorrowmane sighed; shaking his head.

"You have, knowingly or not, stolen my daughter's affections-"

"Ser… if you're about to give me a 'break her heart and breath your last' speech, I've already heard it from at least three people. She's well-loved, she's the Dragonborn and the hero of Skyrim. If I were heartless enough to hurt her, I'd have people beating each other senseless to be able to kill me." Ralof interjected calmly. Sorrowmane had a stricken look on his face for a split second, then burst out in a deep, chuffing laugh.

"Well, then. I happen to have means of interfering with the afterlife, but somehow I imagine the torment that Skyrim's people would inflict would be far more than enough." the massive cat grinned menacingly. Ralof swallowed, nodding.

"Alright, now. Father, Ralof, come inside. Lydia and I just pulled the sweet-rolls from the oven." Mercy chastised from the door. Sorrowmane sighed, rising creakily from where he'd sat.

\---

The caravan moved on a few days later, with promises to creep into Riften and aide the Ratways, and with their coinpurses burgeoning. Ra'Saro went with them, deciding to stay with them this trip, that he might return home with a bit more understanding of the world his daughter lived and breathed in.

Each child had something special from their grandsire, shaped to fit their needs. For Alesan, it was a small amulet that would aid in controlling his magic. Lucia, being the fierce warrior of the quartet, got a sword that would grow with her, and that would not cut any but those who meant her direct harm. Saria, the quiet little mender, got a set of bone needles and a bag of holding full to the brim with silk thread. Maisha, the shy thiefling (Mercy had seen Brynjolf eyeing her as a new protege, much to her alarm), got a special lock that would increase in difficulty until the cub's lockpick snapped. It would revert back to the last lock the child had completed, giving her another chance.

Ralof, for one, was content to see Ra'Saro leave. He didn't dislike the old cat, necessarily, but there was something decidedly unnatural about that glowing gaze. He did, at least, have Saro's blessing where Mercy was concerned.

But… seeing the old cat and finally learning a snippet about his friend… it had made him extraordinarily curious about her. He'd heard her asking after people who had decidedly Argonian names, and mentioning something about a safe-house.

He didn't count on getting the chance he received, when they traveled back to Winterhold with Alesan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. I'm going to say this now, before I forget again.  
> Sorrowmane (and Nianti, but you'll meet her later) is not from Nirn or the Elder Scrolls universe. They both come from Norrath, and their father was a planeswalker.  
> He took a more suitable name when he worked his way into a tribe of khajiit, she pulled some other shenanigans which, again, you'll find out about later.


	18. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralof encountered what appears to be a khajiit who knew all about Mercy.  
> He's not sure if he gave her the right or wrong answer.  
> All he knows is he has Sanguine's hangover and a Khajiit's tongue paired with a Nord's mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote this a while ago. Edited it a few days ago so I could squish it into the story properly.  
> I believe I mentioned shenanigans, right?
> 
> (Italics mark where they're speaking khajiiti, by the by)

Mercy was up in the Arch-Mage's quarters; doing what, Ralof didn't know. Likely she would disappear for a few days and return with blood caked into her fur where she couldn't get it out.

J'zargo was interesting enough; the decidedly explosive khajiit was helping Alesan master his spells, but the most interesting khajiit there had white hair and ancient eyes, despite the age her stance betrayed (not much older than Mercy, from what he could tell). She caught him after he'd asked the librarian about the dragonborn, pulling him to the side in the stairwell.

"Why do you wish to know more of her?" The whiteheaded-but-young khajiit asked. Ralof swallowed, already on edge from the obvious ebb and flow of magic around them.

"I want to understand." He responded softly. The khajiit smiled, closed the gap between them, and laid a hand on Ralof's brow.

Everything blurred, flashing painfully.

* * *

 

He was standing in among some brush; a larger-than-average khajiit male squatted among the tree-roots nearby, a worried expression on his face.

" _Saro! There is a decision to be made, we cannot hold them both for much longer!_ " A feminine voice called from nearby. The tiger-striped khajiit turned a shade grayer, Ralof swore he aged five years or more in a moment.

" _Save this one's daughter. Her mother would never forgive me for letting a life be taken that had not even begun._ " Saro responded.

A newborn baby screamed, and a choked sob faded, Saro's expression becoming one of mourning. A female khajiit approached, carrying a bundle and wearing an equally sorrowful expression.

" _This one is sorry, Do'Saro. Had we been able, we would have saved Rishima-ko as well. Your daughter, though… she will live. She will grow._ " The female (Ralof suddenly identified her as Taahni-daro. Why, he didn't know.) offered the wailing bundle to Saro, who accepted it gently.

" _Myaka… her name is Myaka._ " The khajiit murmured, as tiny hands reached up and clasped two of his fingers. " _She was a great warrior and healer, long ago. My ancestor, my daughter._ "

Taahni nodded, turning and walking away. The scene began to blur as more memories filled Ralof's mind, but he saw tears and shock in the ancient cat's incredibly green eyes as he beheld his daughter for the first time.

* * *

 

A child's laughter echoed around him, he was running after a young khajiit with faint black spots on her grey-and-white fur, and her short black mane fluttering behind her. Occasionally she'd rise up on her toes and reach forward to touch the earth with her fingertips; she ran like a cat as much as like a human. Going by the information that was suddenly readily available to his memory, Ralof put her at five, six years old, and they were looking for a very special, pure white jungle lily.

Myaka (when had she changed her name?) skidded to a stop, rising on tiptoes and sniffing the air. Her expression lit up, and she darted over to a small recess between a tree's roots.

" _Found you!_ " She squeaked, tail lashing happily. She bent to dig her sharp claws into the earth around the lily, murmuring softly as she did so.

" _Great Silent Walker, this one thanks you for your blessings, in giving this one light steps to_ [leaving the earth, mud, and sand undisturbed and whole] _and quick fingers to take what she needs. Now, let this one cross safely back into her tribe's lands from the_ [undefined dark place] _, that she may return what is needed to her kin._ "

Ralof blinked, realizing as the scene changed: They were all speaking Khajiiti! And he was understanding nearly every word!

He didn't dare speak, for fear of breaking the spell. The scenes slowed to a trackable pace again, and he was within a rather claustrophobic hut (or it would have been, were he actually there). Myaka was sitting at her father's knee, speaking with him over supper; the lily glowed softly from a nearby planting-pot.

" _Papa?_ " Myaka started hesitantly.

" _Yes, kitten?_ " Saro responded, turning a tired expression to his cub.

" _Where is Mama?_ "

Ralof felt a sharp pain in his heart; he remembered asking the same thing after his father had gone to war. His mother had given him some good-enough lie, something that had kept him satisfied until he'd been old enough to understand war and death.

" _She is in the Land of True Sands, with Khenarthi and other true Khajiit._ " Saro replied softly.

" _Why did she leave us?_ " the kitten pressed. Ralof saw a pained expression decorate Saro's features.

" _Because, dear one, Khenarthi called for you when you were born, and she offered to go in your stead._ " Saro sat his own food down, pulling Myaka into his lap and hugging her tightly. "She did not want a life that had not even lived for a day to be cut short."

" _But it makes you sad._ " Myaka's tone implied a demand, but somehow it came as worry.

" _It does make me sad. It makes me very sad, because where your papa was born things such as mamas and papas were treated very differently._ "

* * *

 The memories blurred again; Ralof saw in his minds-eye (or was it before him, since this was probably all in his mind?) Myaka maturing and growing, until she was about twelve years old and quite full of herself. She was moon-called for two, nearly three months before this memory (which he could've done without knowing), but something filled his heart with dread about this scene.

Myaka was playing some game with a bunch of other children, far enough away to be out of the adults' way but close enough that they could run if they needed to.

" _Friends! Come on, let's go look for moon lilies!_ " one child shouted, darting toward the deeper jungle. Myaka caught his arm, shaking her head.

" _Our parents said to go no further. There are_ [person who would do harm on anything just for fun] _s out there right now, we need to wait until we get back to our territory before we go wandering._ " She chided; a few of the others nodded their heads in agreement, but the child she had stopped jerked his arm away.

" _You're just being a baby, sucking up to your papa and the other adults! We'll be fine, we won't go far! But you don't have to go if you're a scaredy-cat._ "

Ralof felt himself sicken; he knew what those words could do to Mercy, if applied to the right situation.

" _Myaka would not let you go, not alone. We can't go far, and only for a few moments._ " Myaka ceded, following with the others as the boy let the way out into the darkness. Ralof followed the pack of children, fear bitter in the back of his mouth like bile.

It happened so fast he thought the memories were blurring together again. Three adult Khajiit swooped down on the pack of children not forty yards into the brush. Being the lithe little ones they were, the children scattered, some into the water nearby to wipe their scent while they looked for a better hiding place, some up into the high branches of the trees where the adults could not climb, and some into small holes in the underbrush where only creatures their size could go, all with a mighty shriek that echoed for a long ways and sent birds shrieking into the canopy. Myaka was helping a small child get as high into a tree as they could, and apparently misjudged a limb. There was a snap, and she tumbled back to the lower branches, albeit mostly unhurt. Before she could scramble back up a rough hand caught her ankle, dragging her to the ground.

" _Gotcha!_ " A crazy-eyed ohmes grinned evilly at her before handing her over to a big Suthay.

" _Can't have one of our new dancers being ruined by having to carry a child, now can we?_ " The Suthay bared her fangs, and dug her suddenly-red-hot claws deep into Myaka's belly. The child screamed in pain, Ralof yelled in sympathetic anger, and-

An angry roar filled the clearing, stunning the three rogue khajiit and deafening Ralof for a moment. Myaka was dropped to the ground, curling tight around herself and shrieking, as the Suthay turned to see a tiger-striped blur lunging at her with glowing green eyes.

In the next moment, the Suthay dropped to the ground, head turned far further than it should be; the third khajiit, a suthay-raht, was dead with his own sword sticking through his skull, and the ohmes was dangling a meter off the ground, hanging by his throat from Do'Saro's grip, utterly terrified.

" _Give Do'Saro **one** good reason to spare your life,_ [gutless hunter who lacks any honor]." Saro rumbled, his voice unearthly and almost demonic, his face twisted into a snarl. The ohmes shrieked incoherently; Ralof couldn't blame him, Saro looked like a demon inhabiting a khajiiti skin.

" _P...Papa?_ " Myaka whimpered, hands clamped over the bleeding gash in her belly. " _Papa… it hurts…_ "

Bright eyes stared down from the trees and up from the thick, thorny underbrush, all dilated with fear. Saro's ears rotated back; he snarled one last time (all the children visibly flinched within their safe-spots) and dropped the ohmes slaver to the ground.

" _Do **not** return here, do **not** steal another child again if you value your miserable life, you damned renrij._ " He rumbled, as the slaver turned and ran.

" _Who is responsible for this, hm? What a wonderful idea this was, to get yourselves in trouble, no? Come out, we're going home. And you are going to explain to your parents why, exactly, you had to have great big Do'Saro get angry and come out here after you. All of you, come here. **NOW**!_ " Saro yelled, before stooping and scooping Myaka into his arms; all the children scrambled back out into the clearing, tails fluffed and ears pressed to their heads.

" _I-it was Jandur, Da'Saro! He was the one who came up with the idea!_ " One child cried.

 _"Not me! It was Aahni!_ " Another refuted.

" _Sinder was the one!_ " A third chimed.

" _No, Kisrin!_ " A fourth chittered.

" ** _ENOUGH_ _!_** " Saro bellowed; the children flattened themselves to the ground, eyes wide. " _ **All** of you are in trouble for this, even Myaka. We are going to go home, and your parents will deal with you however they see fit after any injuries are dealt with._ " He turned, motioning for them to move. The children rushed by him, scampering out of the murky jungle and back into the clearing. Saro quickly turned Mercy over to the tribe's healer, before herding each of the other children to their respective parents.

The healer spent an hour or so tutting over Myaka's wounds, stitching together what she could and applying several healing spells. Eventually, she bandaged the child's abdomen and sat back to her pipe.

As the vision blurred again, Ralof heard her say to Saro, " _She'll never have cubs of her own; they made sure of that, at least. May as well have put a sword through her belly. This one is sorry, Saro._ "

He remembered Sapphire telling them about Mercy's scar, the one that marked her as barren. He'd always wondered how she'd gotten it…

He wish he didn't know, now. 

* * *

 

" _Papa? What is_ mercy?"

Ralof perked up at the imperial word (odd, that he would distinguish it specifically as imperial, and not distinguish the other as khajiiti.)

"Mercy _? That is not exactly a khajiiti concept. Where did you hear this word, hm?_ " Ah, now he could see. Myaka was seated on her bed (and it was an actual bed, just like they were in an actual house), tightly weaving a clean silk binding over her torso, up to the leather bands she wore over her chest. She was sixteen, now, binding herself up in case they were attacked.

" _Myaka heard it from one of the traders; they said that the_ Thalmor _had shown_ mercy _to the humans, and then laughed and said they wished they would show the same_ mercy _to us. What did them mean?_ " She tucked the end of the binding under one of the diagonals, then pulled a loose shirt over the whole thing.

Ralof heard Saro sigh from the other side of the divider (where his bed was; they slept in the same room as they had when they travelled with the tribe, before Saro became ill).

" _Mercy means different things in different situations. In the case of our friends downstairs…_ " (There were Argonians on the next floor down, sleeping off the dregs of a poison and healing from their wounds.) " _It is an act of kindness. In the case of someone less welcome, it is an act of benevolence or pity towards an enemy. Such as letting someone go when you were supposed to kill them, because you know that without them their family will struggle and likely die._ Mercy _is something that changes those it is shown to, with few exceptions._ " A deep-seated coughing fit started, then faded from the old cat's side of the room. Myaka seemed to consider his words for a while.

" _Can_ mercy _be a name, as well? It fits well in what you have taught me._ " She asked, finally.

" _Yes, it can. Why, are you considering taking that as your name when you come of age?_ " Saro sounded older than he should, more like an ancient cat than a middle-aged one, still at his peak.

" _Perhaps. It would be fitting, yes?_ " Ah, so this is where she began to change.

" _We shall see._ "

The world blurred once more, through two years and to the day Mercy left Elsweyr.

("Sauros, your daughter is progressing faster than you realize."

"This one is more than aware, Brightscales. She will leave for the realm of men, soon; I only hope that she's ready for the hatred she will face.")

* * *

 

It was hot and dry; Ralof could feel the desert winds biting through him and into Mercy, as she trudged onward alongside the caravan. He could feel her homesickness; she was as built for the desert as any of the others, but she longed for the jungles bordering Blackmarsh. She missed and worried about her father.

Ralof hadn't realized; he'd been detached from her during the memories of her childhood and coming of age. Now, it was her view and her thoughts that he experienced.

The sands blurred into the green lands of Cyrodil; Mercy was arrested for entering a town to get food, as they were running low, then later released with a warning and a half-tanned back. She learned to fish with only her hands from a nomadic Redguard, and they never went hungry again. She learned the basics of healing and destruction magic from a wandering mage in exchange for three vials of skooma (she hated the stuff, hated transporting it and dealing it). Saro, or Sauros as the Argonians called him, had taught her all of his extensive knowledge about hand-to-hand weaponry, as well as what he knew of archery. It was getting noticeably colder the further north they went, but Mercy's fur was thickening to match the weather. The others started calling her Snow-Paws, because she adapted readily to the deepening cold.

Then, one night, a gut feeling led her to separate from them. They would go no further north, too cold for the elders' joints and too risky with the brewing war. She felt… called. Like she would miss out on something incredibly important to her twenty-one-winters-long life if she did not go.

She found herself (in hood and cloak) among a swath of blue-clad soldiers the next morning. Ralof felt his heart sink, he saw himself and his fellow stormcloaks, saw Ulfric laughing among his men. One of the others caught the khajiit's cloak, yanking it away, and they turned on her.

He felt the fear she'd felt, all these strangers turning on her with hateful smiles and glittering axes.

He saw, then, what had originally earned him a slip of her trust.

"Enough! Leave the poor wretch be, and keep watch! We aren't in friendly territory, you know!" His four-years-younger self whisper-yelled, making the others flinch. They grumbled, letting Mercy flee some yards away.

Ralof heard something. He saw Mercy turn her head, then shout in her thick accent, "Look out!"

Red armor flashed, she'd been the reason they'd been able to fight at all. And she was unconscious from a blade's pommel taken to her skull.

* * *

 

Much of the tale after that, he knew. He watched as she took on a dragon and took its soul in, felt her confusion as suddenly she was encouraged (and practically paid) to buy a house in a Nordic city, felt her compassion for those who had little or nothing (like young Lucia, who was not an orphan once Mercy heard her story). She'd had a title and a place of honor dropped in her lap, by Azurah she meant to earn the right to keep them.

He saw her unintentionally get caught up in the Thieves' Guild. Times had been hard, she'd taken to gathering bounties as vigorously as fish. She hunted what she could without over-hunting, and lost most of it to wolves and rot before she could get it home. Brynjolf had given her an opportunity to provide for herself and her daughter without them having to go hungry most nights.

She got caught up in the guild; Ralof saw her rise, saw Mercer's betrayal, Karliah's truth. There was, in fact, honor among thieves and Nightingales.

He met M'aisha for the first time, felt the love and fear that Mercy had for her, saw how Mercy saw herself in those wide, sad eyes. He met Alesan and Saria. He saw the cleansing of Merida's temple, of Azura's Star. He saw the war, the horrors Mercy had seen, had had to commit. He needed to talk to Galmar when he had the opportunity.

He felt the shame of blackmail, of the horror she'd had to commit to steal away Namira's ring, of the betrayal she'd used to end the Forsworn threat in Markarth. He felt her amusement in meeting the Skooma Cat, Sheogorath. He felt her unusual fear and sickened attitude toward Merrunz as she took his razor, her unbridled fear of Molag Bal.

He watched and experienced as she collected all the artifacts of the Daedric Princes (save the skull of Vaermina, which she helped to destroy), then followed as she returned them to the Refuge she'd found while hunting Imperials.

He felt her fear after the night of drunken passion she'd shared with him, a brief passing fear of a child without its father, then a greater fear of losing his friendship because of what she was.

He saw her drive out thalmor and free a portion of Elsweyr, saw her find documents and artifacts disproving the aldmeri claims that they had restored Masser and Secunda.

He felt her growing… compassion? No, not a strong enough word. Pity? No, this was a good feeling, a feeling that easily blinded her and…

Love.

Ralof felt Mercy's love for him, saw the small ways she channeled it to him, finally understood.

She wasn't afraid for herself or her children. She feared for him, did not want to ostracise him from his family, from his people. So she kept her silence.

He understood, now. He understood why she acted as she did, why she spoke softly to some and sharply to others.

The memories faded, blackness surrounded him as he collapsed to the cold stone of the college floor. He was reliving the memories, an entire other lifetime, in his dreams.

He wanted nothing more than black, painless, dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

"Captain? Captain Ralof. Wake up."

"Papa Ralof? C'mon, Mama's gonna be worried if you don't get home tonight."

A large hand on his left shoulder, two mid-sized ones on his right arm. His eyes cracked open, and he was grateful for the dimness of the room. It felt like he had a hangover to rival the one he'd had when Mercy came back from the Pahmar hideout.

" _How long have I-_ " He stopped mid-question, seeing the confused look on Tolfdir's and Alesan's faces.

"Alesan, go find J'zargo. That sounds like Khajiiti, but… Not a dialect I've heard before, and certainly mangled a bit since no-one but Khajiit can properly speak khajiiti. Ralof… I'm not sure what whatever that was did to or for you, but it seems to have overwritten your own knowledge of language and perhaps even mannerisms, at least temporarily. I'd suggest you be wary about who you speak around, and about how you present yourself, until we see what can be done to reverse it." The Alteration master advised, as Alesan darted out of the room and into the college halls.

"Yes, yes, J'zargo will come help. Calm down, child. Hopefully Khajiit can understand Do'Ralof despite how poorly khajiiti comes to men." The felid mage's voice echoed back to them, as Alesan darted back into the room. Ralof sat up (with some help from Tolfdir), watching as J'zargo entered with a feline grace and a patronizing smile.

"So, the Nord has woken up speaking in tongues, hm? Come, ask what you mean to ask, J'zargo will translate, yes?" The mage purred.

"J'zargo, don't patronize him, we need to understand!" Tolfdir scolded. J'zargo flinched.

"Yes, master. Khajiit apologizes, he meant only to have a little jest. But, truly. Speak, this one will hear and explain."

" _This one was asking how long he had been unconscious._ " Ralof said again, acutely aware of the words he was saying now, how twisted they were from what they should be and how NOT-nordic they were. J'zargo flinched.

"Were it not for the unfortunate shape of your mouth you would speak the eastern dialect as perfectly as one who grew up there. As it is, you have quite a heavy accent, more so than the Argonians who take the time to learn with their hissing and their shushing. You ask how long you have been asleep? J'zargo would say… two days? Perhaps a few hours less than? Now, this one's question. How is it you speak like a khajiit, with as proper pronunciations as your tongue allows and with perfect mannerism for a khajiit, when only yesterday you couldn't understand if Khajiit had laid it out for you syllable by syllable?" Golden eyes pierced Ralof like arrows. He swallowed, trying to find the right words in common and failing, then felt a twinge of humor.

" _Perhaps it is because this one just felt like it, hm? Or because he experienced all twenty-four years of a currently-living khajiit's life in the five minutes before he collapsed, no?_ " He responded, quite aware of the tone that reminded him so much of its original owner.

Apparently that was the right answer. J'zargo laughed aloud, startling both Alesan and Tolfdir.

"Snarking AND rumbling, very good, very good! An entire life, you say? This life would not happen to be that of our very own Arch Mage, hm? J'zargo can see he has struck the bulls eye by your expression, friend. Arch-Mage Mercy has many secrets and a curious history, and you knowing them all would likely upset her."

"Th...is wh… one is w..ell… ah..ware…" Ralof coughed out, snatching at his own memories and using what words he could find and fit to his meaning.

"And already your voice is your own, if only partially. J'zargo would say… maybe a week? maybe two? and you will be well. Best to avoid Mercy, though."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, J'zargo is being insufferable. Yes, Ralof's gonna be avoiding Mercy for a while.  
> Gotta give the guy some time to recover, right? Although... that accent's gonna stick for a long time.
> 
> OH YEAH. Before I forget, here's what Saro (Sorrowmane) is (was when he was still in Norrath): http://eq2.wikia.com/wiki/Category%3AShadowknight  
> And as to why, well... his skillset kinda barred him from becoming anything else. He wasn't too happy.


End file.
